


Septic Nightmares

by God0fRa



Category: Youtubers, jacksepticeye
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Eye Trauma, Eyes, Gore, Horror, More tags to be added as chapters are added, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26040112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God0fRa/pseuds/God0fRa
Summary: A series of short stories that deals with horror themes and the Septic Egos. Some will have consistency with each other while some will be a completely different story. Beware: depictions of gore such as eye gore, mutilation, body horror and blood will be present! Approach with caution and please enjoy!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The Graveyard Shift

He sighs, pulling his jacket further around his body as the wind picks up. It is a bone chillingly cold night, the wind and rain seeping into every inch of his being. The moon lingers in the sky, his breath reflecting the light as it billows out in a puff of cloudy air. At least coming in for the night shift means he won't have to deal with visitors demanding to see their loved one despite the fact they are not awake or it is doctor's order that they need to rest. Infuriating, as if they believe they know better than a doctor! Granted, he may be new to the job, but that does not mean he does not know what he is doing!

For years he studied medicine and the body, graduating at the top of his class! If he says that the patient needs to rest without interruptions, then they will rest without interruptions! They think just because he is new to the little Irish town means he does not know anything! Idiots, all of them.

A huff escapes him, the cloud of breath busting out. It is the same thing day in and day out, just minor injuries here and there, or somebody thinking they are having an emergency but it is nothing at all or they just gave themselves a small prick. They are all a pri—

A cry of pain gets his attention, blue eyes glancing at the direction it came from. The park? Nobody should be out and about at this time. But he cannot mistake that sound: it is somebody in pain.

Quickly the path changes, deviating to running into the nearby park. As he steps into the green grass, he jumps at the blood curdling scream followed by a horrific tearing sound. It sounds wet, tearing until the scream ceases. No movement catches his eyes, not even the rustle of trees. . . No owls hooting, no wind blowing through the air. Even the rain has stopped suddenly.

The air feels degrees colder. The shadows are dramatized, defined as if the light is ever so close. No crickets chirp in the grass, it is just horribly quiet. Everything feels off, as if time is at a standstill.

But that scream. . .

The hairs on the back of his neck raise as he steps further into the patch of grass. The scream came from the forest just at the edge of the park. Of course, the dense forest that nobody goes into. Damn his drive to help those in need. Taking a deep breath, he pushes forward towards the source.

It feels like he is being watched, thousands of eyes watching him, like his first surgery without the teachers, yet amplified. All eyes on him, but it is **only** eyes, no bodies, no people. Just eyes staring into his very core. No matter how much he looks, there is nothing.

The feeling gets worse as he pushes past the forest edge, instantly bombarded by overwhelming scents. The most prominent are the rotting leaves scattered across the ground. . . and the unmistakable smell of iron. Blood, and lots of it.

In the distance something moves, getting his nerves to jump. But it is gone after a blink, leaving behind a groaning sound. It is a human sound, getting the doctor to run without thinking about the consequences. He must try to help!

When he gets closer, it is quick to identify the body of a man curled on the floor with crimson blood pooling around him. There's so much blood, it cannot be all his. The body is shuddering, shaking as incoherent mumbles escape the trembling lips.

“Herr?” He takes a knee near this man, shaking his shoulder before moving to check his pulse. The soft thump of blood through artery is a sign the man is somehow alive. Moving quickly, he turns the man onto his back, eyes widening and a hand covering his nose and mouth as the smell gets worse. Blood seeps from the face, oozing out from the empty socket where his eye would be. Blood trails down his cheek slowly, one of the sources of blood. A small nick on the front of his neck seeps blood as well.

Somehow, the single eye opens a bit, squinting up at the doctor. He tries to speak, only getting out a gurgled sound and crimson blood to squirt from the neck wound.

“Nein, nein. Don't speak, herr, you are not in zhe condition to talk vith zhat wound. Can you valk?—and tell me vith a nod yes or no.”

The man pauses, taking a moment before nodding his head. The doc helps him to his feet, taking most of the others weight against his body with an arm over his shoulder and his free hand grabbing the belt, “It is not far. I need to get you to zhe hospital.” There's hesitation from the mysterious man, “Herr, I am not going to negotiate this or accept any arguments. You vill come vith me to the hospital, and I vill help you out.”

The man does not argue, letting the doctor lead him through the trees then out of the park. Only a few blocks separate them from the hospital. Taking a pause, he pulls out some cloth to dab at the blood, “How are you holding up?” The other just gives a nod, “Not too much longer. Once ve are inside I'll get you to a bed and start patching you up.”

The walk there is quiet, not even a groan or cry of pain from the man. How is he alive? There was nothing else around him—except for that shadowy figure but that moved like it was not injured—so, all that blood had to belong to him. But how much blood could come out of the two wounds? That is, unless there are some other wounds covered by clothing.

That feeling of time not moving continues. Now that he enters the hospital's parking lot a realization hits him: through the whole walk to the hospital there were no cars on the street, nobody walking home. Cars are lined up in the parking lot, but no people inside to drive off, not a single engine revving up or springing to life. No jingle of keys—not even their footsteps make a noise to disturb the silence. What is going on?

He can still feel the weight of eyes watching him, something catching his attention in the peripheral of his vision. It looks like a figure, humanoid yet with thousands of acid-green eyes. When he looks in that direction, there is nothing. Maybe it is his paranoia getting to him, or the panic of finding a man who should be dead.

He will chalk it down as one of those things.

Moments after he gets inside it is like life resumes. A nurse rushes over as her eyes grow wide at the sight, “Dr. Schneeplestein! Let me help you!” She hurriedly takes the man's other arm to help distribute his weight. Together they take him to a gurney, Schneeplestein already starting to check vitals and telling another nurse to get him various things. Cleaning supplies to stop any infections and a kit to help with the empty eye socket.

There is no way to save that eye, or more the bits of nerve ends dangling out of the socket. There is no eye left to save. Each new discovery makes him wonder more and more **how** this man is still alive.

“It is going to be okay,” Schneep reassures the patient, “You're in good hands.” The nurse hands him a pair of scissors, the t-shirt cut away as it clings to his body from the sticky, drying blood. As they pull the torn shirt away from the patient’s back, the nurse gasps.

On his back are nasty lacerations, deep into the flesh and the most likely culprit for the pooling blood. There is no doubt about it. . . this man should be **dead**. Yet, he is still breathing, he is still conscious and can respond to them. There's nearly a dozen gashes in his back, many crossing over each other and small pieces of flesh missing.

“Herr, can you hear me?” Schneep remains in a state of surprised shock as the man nods, “Mein gott. . . How is zhis possible?” His attention turns to the nurse, “Get an OR ready, ve need to get his eye cleaned up and do somezhing to stop it from getting infected.” The nurse nods, leaving him alone with the patient, “Ve vill be getting you to a room and then put you unda. It vill be quick and once you vake up you vill feel much better.”

As he turns to retrieve an antiseptic swab, a hand latches onto his arm.

Are those. . . whispers? Or is it a growing white noise of static ringing in his ear yet indiscernible where it comes from?

“Save. . .” The word comes out in a hoarse voice, crackling as if over a broken radio, “S-aav-vee. . . th-the-e—” Before the word can be finished the voice drops, shifting into a soft bubbling giggle—rising in volume as it becomes a full blown maniacal cackle. He continues, blood oozing out of the wound on his neck.

Suddenly it stops, the body shuddering before collapsing back onto the bed, unmoving.

“Scheisse!” Quickly the doctor checks the other’s pulse, still finding a weak one—weaker than before. The feeling of eyes watching him gets worse, as if they are inches away from him. His skin crawls, itching like hell. It itches, like he wants to tear off his skin, that it is something foreign that needs to be removed!

No, he needs to focus on saving the patient. Schneep shakes his head, working to focus solely on the man. He breathes in, pulling out the antiseptic swabs before beginning to clean up the eye socket. Surgery is needed to remove the nerve ends, seal them so they do not get infected. Not to mention he needs to sew up all the gashes.

Sighing, he puts up the guardrails to the gurney. The OR should be ready now. A nurse joins him as he rushes through the hallways, “Vash up, you vill be joining me for zhis.” He nods and assists in pushing the doors open. As they close, the rest of the world goes silent. . .

Blue eyes open slowly, blinking away the sleep that clings to his eyelashes. He fell asleep at his desk. . . A hand rubs over his eyes, banishing away the last bits of sleep. Not an uncommon occurance for him, spending a lot of his time at work on the floor or in his office.

Schneeplestein stands up from his desk, heading out and down the hallway. It has been a few hours since he had done the surgery on the patient, able to clean out the eye socket and sew up all the lacerations on his back and the cut on his throat. It was a difficult process, using a lot of blood to make sure the patient wouldn't die of blood loss, though with everything that didn't seem possible.

It still baffles him to no end how that patient survived in the first place. There was no identification on his person, no wallet, no keys. There was a cellphone on him, but it was fried, the screen shattered to pieces and blood seeping through the cracks. No way to save it or even try to get information off it.

If he wakes up, he will ask the man what his name is. For now, John Doe will be looked after until he does wake up. Or. . . **if** he wakes up.

Schneep gently knocks on the door, waiting a few moments before entering the room.

The smell is a shock, like being hit in the face with a bat. The heavy scent of something metallic like blood but burnt assaults his senses as the strongest smell. It mixes in with the scent of dust, a musty smell that lingers with a hint of decay. Fingers trace along the wall, brushing over the light switch as he flicks it on.

The light flickers spastically before bursting, sparks exploding as they fall to the ground, “Sheisse!” He jumps a couple feet into the air, the hair on the back of his neck raising, goosebumps forming on his arms. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, his mind starting to shift into flight.

Despite it, he pushes forward. The patient is top priority, “Herr?” The room is drenched in dust, orbs drifting through the air as a single stream of blueish light seeps from the drawn curtains, “Herr, are you avake?”

“He. . .el. . .” The voice rises, that voice he heard before. It is a voice through an old radio, crackling and stuttering like the speakers are broken—static filling the air and growing louder, “He-henn-nriiiiikkkk.” A giggle rises, “Henriiiikkkk.”

Suddenly, it becomes clear, the voice harsh as it whispers right into his ear, “Henrik von Schneeplestein.”

Schneep jumps, whipping around only to find emptiness beside him. Moments linger as he tries to see something that could have whispered that. Groaning, he steps over to the bed, seeing the form beneath the sheets. No, it could not have been the patient doing that. . . Nobody could be moving after such extensive surgery. Though. . . nobody should have been able to survive an attack that caused such damage.

His hand reaches out, a slight shake to the limb as he grabs hold of the sheet. Without more than a beat of hesitation he pulls the covers down, shocked to see there is. . . nothing. But it looked like the patient was there!

Blue eyes glance up, widening as the feeling of being watched returns instantly. All around him, all over the walls of the room are eyes, all an acid green color that stare him down. They all blink at different times—some never blinking—all different sizes.

One of the larger ones, situated right above the bed stares down at him, unblinking. The eyes around it close, shifting and morphing. They are replaced with a grin of razor-sharp teeth.

There is no stopping the scream from escaping—all rationality fades away as he turns and tries to run, only to lose his footing and fall face first into the tiled floor.

He has long enough to let out a pained wheeze before something latches onto his leg, dragging him back a few feet. Turning, he sees the long, clawed arm extend from the blackened wall. Black mist-like fog rolls from between the sharp teeth, settling on the ground and slithering closer to his body. He screams, trying to kick the hand off his leg, unable to move the other one as it is completely encased by the clawed hand. The fog is bone-chilling cold, ice gnawing at his skin.

He can do nothing but watch as something begins to crawl out of the wall—the single eye and sharp grin shifting down to a humanoid size as the body forms. The first thing to become defined is the head, the blackness sprouting so many eyes on the right side to counter the single on the left. Then comes the torso and the arms, blackened claws curling inward as the arms stretch over its head. Finally, there is the legs, dripping black liquid onto the floor.

It grins at him, showing off the pearly white fangs, “Hennnrrriiikkkk.” It coos, stepping closer with each scoot back the doctor makes, “D-don-on’t rr-uu-unnnn.” Its arms lower to its side, one reaching forward as if beckoning the other to come to it.

“W-who are you?! Vhat did y-you do to my patient?!” Schneep snaps, trying to sound confident despite the shake in his voice. Very little can scare him, but whatever this thing is, it scares the hell out of him.

“Why. . .” The figure grins further, a grotesque twisting of the mouth, curling further up its face, “I-I am your p-pupp-ppee-eet-tteer. . . little p-puppe-et.”

Only a scream escapes the doctor as the creature lunges, nails digging into his neck.

And then his eyes snap open, finding himself in his office again. His breathing is labored, beads of sweat dripping down his face. The beat of his heart pounds against his rib cage, finding it hard to calm down. What the hell was that thing?

He nearly throws the chair to the floor getting up so quickly, rushing down the hallway towards the room. Room 702.

The door is open, the room completely empty. How?

Schneep turns to the nearby nurse, “Nurse, vhere is the patient zhat was just in here?” The confused look from the nurse is concerning.

“What patient? Doctor, there hasn’t been a patient in there for a couple days now.” The nurse lowers her clipboard, frowning, “Are you okay, you look frazzled.”

No patient? “I brought a patient in a few hours ago! Zhey had surgery for zheir eye and the lacerations on zheir back!” The nurse gets more and more concerned as Schneep goes on, “I used OR two to do the procedure, nurse Scott helped me!”

“Nurse Scott?” The nurse raises an eyebrow, highly concerned now, “He hasn’t been in for a week. . . a missing person’s report was filed a couple days ago. Doctor, are you sure you are okay? I can call Dr. Simon to give you a checkup.”

“No!” Schneep snaps, not what he wanted but it comes out without a second thought, “I’m fine.” He cannot be going crazy or letting the stress get to him on his first month at the job! He cannot lose this job; it is his last hope to be able to see his kids!

He turns away, heading back to his office.

This cannot be happening. It was all so real. . . just like that dream or vision or whatever it was. The door closes gently behind him, collapsing into his chair, “You’re not going crazy. . . you’re just tired. Ja. . . zhat’s it. . . just tired. . .”

“If you are so tired. . . why do not you—” a hand wraps around his throat from behind, forcing his head back to look into those green eyes, “—go to sleep.” No scream escapes, only the gurgling sound.

“Y̴͔͉̑͆o̵̞͂̾u̵̜̕ ̵̥͈̌͠a̷̻̬͛r̷̢͌̚e̶̱̐ ̵̞̓m̵̤͚̓̅î̷̖̔n̸͇̋͜ȇ̶̜̰̉.”

In the morning, they find no trace of Dr. Henrik von Schneeplestein, save for blood splattered over his desk and a knife embedded in the picture of him with his kids—the blade directly stabbing into his face.


	2. The Haunted Carnival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching Folklore Hunter from the Salty Bois, I started thinking about them doing some ghost hunting. So, they get to be in this chapter! Sorry Salty Bois, it's not your day.

“Come on!” The male groans, steps ahead of the rest, “Can you guys hurry it up? We don’t have all day! It’s almost nighttime!” Strands of dyed blond hair are pushed back behind his ear, zipping up the purple Twitch hoodie. There is a nip in the air, not enough to make them shiver, but enough to require jackets. They have been walking for about thirty minutes now, leaving the car back at a parking lot. The roads that lead through the forest have long gone unmaintained and unable to be driven on, requiring them to go on foot. At least they were prepared to walk this long. Unfortunately they did not have the money to get some ghost hunting gear besides a night vision camera and an EMF reader. At least they have **something** to help with their ghost hunting.

“If we take too long JP may run away,” He jokes, getting a ‘hey!’ out of one of the taller two in the group, “It took us days to convince you to do this man, I don’t want to lose out on this! Gar and I have a bet to see how long you last.”

“Seriously?!” JP groans, his shoulders slouching slightly, “That’s rude guys!” A glance around is given, the expression shifting to curiosity, “Where are we going anyway?”

“It’s not too far,” The other shorter male, Gar, grins with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, “Wade found this really creepy abandoned carnival. They say some people have gone missing here, the usual stuff like any other haunted place has.”

JP hesitates, only to be pushed forward by the tallest of the group, “Come on, don’t be a baby, JP. You’re an adult now, face your fears.”

“Yeah!” The one ahead cheers, “Listen to ol’ Wade and you buddies Pat and Gar! We’ll protect you from any scary ghost.” He laughs, turning back around as the carnival comes into view. It is much like the carnivals they would see around, a more permanent one then one of those pop-up ones. The towering Ferris wheel, the various booths of games and snacks to pick up, the old rollercoaster bordering the whole area, and the star attraction: The House of Mirrors.

“The House of Mirrors is said to be the real epicenter of the creepy stuff,” Gar hums, glancing back to the two lingering in the back. He raises his hands, wiggling his fingers as Pat joins in with a ‘whoooooo’, “They say you can see other people in the mirrors, that some get trapped in there.” Pat lets out a fake scream, stopping dead in his path and banging at the air like he’s trapped in a mirror, “They also say there’s a huge room in the middle that people have seen a guy in there.”

“Not just standing there!” Pat gasps, walking over to Gar as he holds his hands up as if to grab his friend, “They say he is an eldritch creature that can manipulate nature, a magician! He has marionettes that he controls, sending them after people who enter. But there’s also a tale that if somebody meets the magician in the center, they get a wish.”

“Seriously?” Wade snorts at this, “Do you guys really believe that?” Beside him, their friend still looks highly unsettled especially with that story. The youngest out of them, JP, can be sensitive and a bit naïve at times, but he had his moments of strength and courage against the things that scare him. 

“Nah, but it’s a fun story to tell to scare people.” Gar grins, high-fiving Pat as they start walking towards the entrance of the carnival, “It’s probably not even true. The other part of the story says that even though people get their wish, there is some horrible consequence that happens later or right there. Kinda like that mystical monkey paw thing.”

JP huffs, his shoulders slouching once again, “Great. Why did I let you guys talk me into this?”

As they cross the threshold from the outside into the carnival, there is a chilling wind, brushing past them as if entering a whole new place—a pressure shift. They all shudder a bit, glancing back as the world behind them seems to distort as a rolling fog covers the grounds. The outside world seems to be a distant memory, obscured behind the quickly thickening fog.

“Alright, that’s normal for a horror movie,” Wade grimaces. He moves forward, taking lead as they head towards the center square of the carnival—where a map of the park sits. The map is torn in multiple areas, smudges covering certain attractions and some attractions listed are not even there. Words in Latin are written on the board, a few letters glowing in a bright teal light. Ä«¶Ì. Despite being letters they know, the name doesn't stick in their minds; the name is there one second, and then gone the next.

Around them a soft giggle echoes, getting all four to stop.

“Ah! We have guests!” JP jumps at the voice, Gar and Pat looking unsettled. Wade meanwhile moves a bit, getting in front of the three, “How long it has been!”

A wind picks up, trails of dying leaves floating in with a stream of teal smoke—bits of the fog mixing in. It swirls together, climbing higher before it bursts into a flash of brilliant blue-green sparks. From the light a figure forms, color seeping in from the blackened shape, standing a little taller than Gar and Pat, but shorter than JP and Wade. The face is obscured by a cat masquerade mask, the black cape fluttering as the wind dies down. 

A white gloved hand presses against the figure’s chest, the other behind the back as it bows to the four, “Welcome to our lovely carnival!” Attention snaps up, a hint of teal glowing beneath the mask, “We’ve been expecting you. . .” It is unsettling to be unable to see the figure’s facial features besides the sharp grin—they can feel the piercing gaze scan over them, but no eyes discernible behind the mask’s eyeholes.

It stands straight up, the hand remaining behind its back as the one brings forth a set of cards, “The Lord of Minions, The Demon of Wolves, The Weaver of Static, and The Warrior of Lightning.” The gaze travels from one to the other, grinning wide as all four look shocked. Those titles all relate to their youtube channels, to themselves.

“I know much,” the magician wags a finger, tossing the cards into the air as they hover in a teal glow, “Kings of your suites! Aspiring entertainers just as I once was!” All but the kings return to the hand, vanishing into the sleeve, “Don’t be so scared, we are here to entertain!” 

“We?” JP mumbles his words, all four looking around.

From the fog comes multiple figures, all different people dressed as various characters that one would find in a carnival. Every face is painted with beautiful colors, designs that make them look like animals or just artistic symbols across their visage. The thing that is the same is the odd teal color to their eyes and the way they walk. They had an unsettling walk to them, something mechanical about it. It’s as if they are walking by strings, somebody controlling their every movement. . . as if they are corpses being controlled by a puppeteer. 

“We’ve grown so lonely without patrons to entertain,” the magician laments, a hand pressing against his forehead, “Everyone else runs away so quickly at the sight of my dear companions.” They gesture to those around before grinning, “But you lot seem like the brave kind! As expected for Kings.” 

The hand pushes forward, the four cards floating over and hovering in front of the four at the center of the circle of _workers_.

“Lord of Minions, King of Hearts.” They laugh, before the card bursts into sparks of red fire.

“Warrior of Lightning, King of Diamonds.” In a similar fashion the card disappears in streams of green threads.

“The Demon of Wolves, King of Spades.” His card violently bursts into splashes of blue, falling to the ground before dissipating into smoke.

“And the Weaver of Static, King of Clubs.” The final card dissolves away into a purple smoke, swirling around before vanishing.

This does not help to ease any of their anxiety and fears. Such theatrics were not possible in reality.

The magician chuckles, “I’d offer some food, but alas we have no such thing. Though, I know why you are here! Such a desire to explore and discover what this place must reveal! So many of you come here in search of the ghosts of the past. I must disappoint—” its shoulders deflate a bit, a mock sadness, “—there are no ghosts here, only the living. But,” it perks up again, tapping a finger against its chin, “perhaps you are here about the stories of the House of Mirrors!”

It grins, pulling up the cape to cover a bit of its lower face, “Rumors spread like wildfire!” The cape is pushed back, blue-green flames bursting into the air—getting all four to jump once again, “Burning into the mind of every ear that hears it!” A laugh rises, seeming to be two different voices, and not coming directly from the magician’s mouth.

“But yes, oh yes, rumors can come from truth!” From the gloved hand forms a small crystal, the inside shimmering with blue and green, sparkling off the surface, “Wishes can come true if you so desire. Wishing upon a piece of a star!” Fingers tap against the surface, the grin hidden behind the lowered head, “As long as you can make it through the maze of mirrors, of course. Such a prize cannot simply be obtained by asking. Oh, no no no! It must be gained!” The theatrics of this being is rather unsettling, the expressions reflecting this feeling on all four visitor's faces.

The crystal vanishes, the magician shifting its weight before brushing the cape back to reveal the House of Mirrors behind it, “Shall you dare enter? Shall the Kings prevail where so many failed?” It laughs, “We shall see!”

“I don’t think so.” JP quickly shakes his head, taking a step back despite knowing it would not help with the group surrounding them, “We’re just here to visit but now we’re heading out.” He glances to the others, fear clearly showing in his eyes.

Wade glances between the three before looking to the magician, “I think we’ll pass this time. We. . . well, we didn’t expect anybody to be here. But we don't want to bother you guys with our ghost hunting, and that's what we came here to do.” The stories said nothing about people being at the carnival. Yes, there were hints of something there, but not anybody living. Though. . . something in his gut says that these people are not living despite what that magician says.

The magician watches, seeing Gar and Pat nod in agreement about leaving, “Hmn. . .” In a snap of a moment the demeanor changes, the grin twisting further into a grotesque, Cheshire-like smile. The voice is volumes louder, a slightly higher pitch, “How unfortunate! We don’t like cowards!” The ground starts to shake beneath them, cracks rising in the cement below. The face is still obscured, but the glare can be felt into their very cores.

“Imposters who wear the face of royalty!” The magician gives an inhuman growl, sparks of teal light starting to gather around it, “Mockery! If you shall not willingly play, then I will make you! Such is the fate of visitors to my land!” It booms, the whole place shaking as the people around shrink back in pure terror. This creature masquerading as a man controls it all, the world warping and bending around them

In a flash, everything goes dark for the four. It feels like seconds later they wake up, alone in a pit of darkness. Everything slowly settles back into reality, a small light glimmering above their heads to chase away the blackness.

And then, the lights illuminate, reflecting off hundreds of mirrors surrounding them all. The House of Mirrors.

“Poor little imposters! So scared, so frightened!” It cackles, echoing around them, “I’ll still play nice despite your cowardice. At least, I will play nicely with the one who gets to the center first. So unfortunate, I had high hopes for you all. Oh well. . . Might want to move little mice, the cats are out and are hungry. Now, **RUN**!”

None hesitate after hearing the last word screamed out in a deep, almost frantic voice. There is a bit of a scream heard, one they all recognize as the youngest of their group, “JP!” The three yell out, quickly running in hopes they could find the other. There must be something they can do, maybe meet up and get to the center together. Odds are with the classic horror trope they will be better off together; in a group they are safer.

Pat jumps a bit, turning around quickly as he thought he sees something in the mirror. It is a flicker of movement, there one second, gone the next. Mirrors always play tricks on the mind, he must remind himself that—not everything is going to be something, the mirrors distort his own shape, twisting it and manipulating it to look different. Even at one moment he thought he saw some creature that looks like him.

He quickly shakes his head, turning back around and heading towards the direction he remembered hearing the scream of his friend, “Hold on, we’re coming JP.”

Gar grimaces, glaring at one of the mirrors that reflects a strange monstrous creature that shares his visage. It shares traits with the old facerig avatar he used before switching to the webcam, but something more horrific, more dangerous. It shifts back to his own image seconds later.

The whispers are annoying and unsettling, indiscernible what they are saying—are they even trying to say something, or just mumbled nothings?

No, they are distractions. The need to find his friends is stronger—they cannot be alone, not with whatever this monstrous creature wearing the guise of a man watching them. How could that rumor be true? These kind of things are only in games, not reality! He takes in a shaky breath before pushing forward.

Wade hisses, cursing at himself for smashing his leg against one of the mirrors from moving too quickly around a corner. Every sound makes him jump a bit, especially the more inhuman sounds. It is one thing to play a horror game, it is a whole other ballpark experiencing it in real life.

“JP? Gar? Pat?” He calls out, hoping to at least hear a response—if they can hear him. . . He breathes out a held in breath, continuing down the pathway. Behind him, something moves, steps stumbling to bring it forward.  
The thing fumbles, slamming into the glass at it shatters, getting the tall male to whip around, “FUCK!” Wade nearly chokes on his own saliva as he inhales so quickly. He could fight, at the same time this thing does not look capable of fighting well itself but could still be a threat. Better safe than sorry. He can't risk any injury with how far they are from any hospital.

Without much more of thought he runs in the other direction, away from the humanoid creature. There is a thought, however, lingering in the back of his head as he runs, but he does not want to bring it to the forefront—bringing it into the front of his mind may jinx it.

Meanwhile, JP moves slowly through the hallway of mirrors, tensing up at every movement, running when there is the sound of shuffling—there is a difference between the footsteps of a human and the steps of the marionette-like creatures. Humans walk with a rhythm, something steady. Those creatures step with a stumble, something that is inconsistent. He needs to remain focused, not let the fear get to him, “Okay, keep calm, you can get through this.”

He bounces on his feet a bit, psyching himself up to continue without letting the fear seep so far into his very nerves. It is suddenly so much, one moment they were having fun, the next in some game of a creepy creature. What even is it? They call it a magician, but it is much more than that. Whatever it is, it does not settle well in his mind nor calms the anxiety pooling in his gut.

“Guys?” JP calls out, hoping to get some response. In the distance he thinks he can hear something like Pat's voice, “Patrick?” A tentative step is taken forward before another follows. One after the other he steps forward, following the pathway that leads to where he heard the voice. He must be near one of them!

He bursts through the next hallway, eyes widening as the surroundings seem to sway and shift. The hallway in front of him disappears, a mirror in his way as the left and right open. A great time for one who does not enjoy horror games as much as the others. JP shudders, taking a step back, “Guys. . . Somebody help me!”

Suddenly, the mirrors shatter around him, hands quickly shooting up to cover his face. The shards glimmer and shimmer, yet do not fall to the ground. Idly they hover in the air, getting brown eyes to stare wide. Hands slowly lower, intensely watching the shards, “What the. . .?” The smaller pieces simply reflect light, while the larger ones show off various people—faces he does not recognize and some reminding him of the people outside.

_They say you can see other people in the mirrors, that some get trapped in there._

The words Gar spoke before they entered the carnival echo in the forefront of JP’s mind. They get trapped in the mirrors. . . These are the reflections of those people, their bodies taken and played with like toys. That creature seals away the souls and plays with their bodies, stringing them up and using them as entertainment.

Is this their fate if they do not escape?

He steps back, away from the shards as more and more faces show up in the pieces. How many people have fallen victim to this monster?

“Watch out,” A voice whispers in his ear, getting the footing to fail. JP tumbles backwards, crashing through the only in contact mirror. A cry of pain escapes, feeling the jagged edges cut across his arms as he falls through.

Painfully his back collides with the ground, getting a grunt to push out of his lungs. Everything aches, squeezing eyes tightly shut to push down the throbbing pain. When will this all end? If only he could close his eyes and open them again to being in his bed. Why can it not be a horrible nightmare?

Eyes open, only to see the familiar reflections of mirrors. However. . . JP heaves himself onto his feet, brushing off the pieces of glass from his shirt and pants before scanning the area. It is a room, the shattered mirror the only entrance into the expansive space. It does not look like it should have been able to fit into the building, yet it is here.

“So,” The voice raises, getting JP to tense, “The King of Diamonds has reached the end, by accident it seems.” The figure appears in a burst of teal smoke, the features still hidden beneath clothing and the mask, “Admirable job.” It claps, giving that wide grin.

“Poor dear friends though,” it gives a faux frown, fingers pressing against its chest, “Not so lucky as you.” Fingers snap and in a similar fashion to its entrance, the other three appear—however, something is off. Their bodies stand their limply, shoulders slouched forward as arms dangle uselessly. They look as if they are struggling to stand. . . eyes that bright teal. Fingers are traced with black lines, around the wrists like the joints of a marionette doll. In a marking like the others, two lines stretch down from the sides of their mouth to frame the chin.

It chuckles, the crystal from earlier appearing in its palm, “The wish is yours, little warrior.” The magician steps forward, each foot hitting the ground yet making no sound, “It can be whatever you want, the sky’s the limit!”

When close enough, it gives a deep chuckle, tossing the crystal the last bit. Quickly, JP swipes it from the air, holding it before bringing it close to his chest. There is no hesitation in knowing what he wants

“I want my friends back!” His eyes narrow at the being in front of him, “Give me my friends back!”

It watches JP, studying the serious expression on his face, “You want them back?” Silence, the glare burning into the mask.

And then it laughs again, brushing back the cape, “You drive a hard bargain, Warrior of Lightning, but very well. You shall have your friends back.” The grin is not reassuring, an unsettling sight as all teeth are exposed—more teeth than should be able to fit in a human’s mouth.

It pulls out the deck of cards again, all floating up to circle around the two of them. They hover for a moment, JP noticing that the Kings are missing, “Your wish is my command~”

Around them the mirrors shatter, the pieces floating as the light grows brighter and brighter.

When it dies down, JP lowers his arms from shielding his face. He is outside, the trees stretching around him as the night sky is clear of any clouds. Stars speckle the blackened sky, weak light compared to the full moon hovering in the sky. It looks beautiful compared to the hell he just experienced.

Eyes dart around, getting anger rising when he doesn’t see the other three near him, “Where are they?! Come back here!” As he finishes yelling, a flicker of teal light catches his attention. On a stump sits a few of the magician’s cards, the back decorated with the same mask the creature wore, swirls of green and light blue surrounding it. . . and behind it all the image of a knife.

A shaky hand reaches forward, picking up the cards. Three cards. . . He turns around the first, screaming out when he sees the image. Rather than the King of Heart’s image mirrored on the two sides, it is Wade, terrified as he looks as if pounding on the surface. The other two are checked, finding Pat and Gar in similar positions. No!

A note sits next to where the cards were, written in beautiful flowing letters in dark red ink.

_There is a price for everything to enter my territory. Come again little Warrior. Next time, we will play for your dear friends’ bodies. Until then, I suggest keeping good care of those, they need their souls later after all._

Tears fall down his face, falling to his knees. The sobs shudder through his whole body, tears dropping to the ground. Why. . . why did this happen to them?

He was never able to find the magician again, not until the day the fog rolled in, the day he vanished.


	3. The Snow Mystery

A breath is taken in before exhaled, a puff of air visible. There is a chill in the air, his foots crunching against the snow. The mountains are cold, trees surrounding him on every side. It is a quiet place, the flakes falling from the sky in large chunks, growing larger every minute that passes. There is no wildlife in sight, not an encounter with anything since they left the town at the base of the mountain.

A blizzard is coming. They will need to find shelter soon. So far deep into the unforgiving wilderness means no town to find shelter in. They have to hope there's a cabin somewhere.

“How much longer?” He calls to the one in front of him, boot prints in the fluffy white cover a path to follow. Already the world is blanketed in the snow, whiteness starting to encase his vision.

The other looks over at him, giving a smile, “Not too much longer! There should be an old cabin a few meters ahead of us, at the base of this hill. We can rest there. Don’t worry, Jackie, we’ll get there soon.”

It has been interesting, following this man. Jackie had met him not too long ago, searching for something. Both wanted help; the man—who has yet to give a name and has avoided any questions about it—wants help finding somebody, and Jackie wants to use his gifts for good. It is a match for both.

Jackie always had a gift, abilities that no other humans would have. His strength is phenomenal, his sight keen and the astounding ability to soar through the air. Yet, despite his desires, there had been no chances for him to show off his powers—to save somebody. Every time he was close to being able to, the police would get involved. Nobody wants a hero anymore it seems.

His arm still aches from the bullet wound healing on his shoulder. Why do they assume he is there to do something wrong? There have been times where somebody got hurt in the process, but normal humans are fragile and sometimes can't take the damage from a rescue—but they are alive and that is what matters, right?

Still, when the police start chasing him like he's a criminal it hurts. All that should be done, is saving people who can't fight for themselves and one day be recognized as a true hero, what he deserves.

So, when this mysterious man came to him about getting his help, Jackie jumped at the opportunity—perhaps a bit too quickly without asking questions. He needs to show his worth, he needs something to show what he can do. This is a chance to save lives and bring solace to the loved ones of those who have disappeared into the white abyss.

A sigh of relief escapes him upon seeing the cabin below. Good, they can at least warm up inside and start getting their bearings—and Jackie can finally ask his questions of the other. The pace picks up as they move into a small sprint, moving down the hillside carefully but quickly. Branches poke out from the snow, creating an obstacle course for them to maneuver through.

The blizzard is minutes away from hitting them.

His companion slams his shoulder into the door as they get to the porch, grunting as it does not open, “Damn it! The door is frozen closed!” He tries again, growling when it doesn’t open the second time, “The next cabin is not for kilometers! We won’t make it before the storm hits us.”

“Stand back.” Jackie commands, waiting until the other steps to the side. When the path is cleared, Jackie repeats the action, slamming his shoulder into the door—enough force to break the ice holding the wooden door shut. Only a bit of the door is damaged by the action luckily, still enough to seal the cold from infecting the warmth inside. Or well. . . the minimal warmth they find as they hurriedly get inside.

“Brrr. . .” He grumbles as hands rub against his forearms to spark a bit of heat, “At least we are out of that cold.” Though, they are going to need to start a fire to counter the growing bitter cold outside. A fireplace sits in the living room and a wood burning stove in the kitchen. With the night coming, they may have to spend the dark hours there. Even if he is superhuman, Jackie still needs sleep.

“Yeah,” the other nods, rubbing his own arms before heading towards the living room, “But we'll be safe here for the night. Best to wait out the blizzard in here." The backpack is thrown to the coffee table, the blue eyes scanning around the room, “Can you grab some wood from that crate in the kitchen? A few should do for the fire in the stove and the rest for the fireplace. Best to rest near the fireplace instead, and we will need a lot to get through the night.”

“Right—wait. . .” Jackie stops his steps towards the kitchen, giving a suspicious glance to the other, “How do you know where the firewood is?” Nobody has been in this area for years, and it is off limits after the disappearance of multiple campers. It is always unnerving to visit places where people would end up going missing. He finds it hard to decide if it is worse to know what happens to the bodies or that they just mysteriously disappear.

Rumors say that the area is haunted by a creature of the snow, something that takes away campers who foolishly stay out during a blizzard. No rumors are spread about what takes these people, only that they are never found again, tents torn and their supplies shredded. Fabric can be found, pieces scattered around as is their bodies were eviscerated or caught on branches as they ran. It always happens when a blizzard is coming in.

Could this man's friend be a victim? Is he out here for revenge?

Answers are needed, especially when the other does not respond to why he knows where the firewood is. Too many secrets can make even the desire to do anything to save a person dwindle. It unsettles him to have secrets hidden from him, getting him worried some of them may be vital to know.

“Hey,” Jackie starts as he moves to the kitchen, raising his voice to account for the distance between them, “You never answered my question, or any of them really. What's your name?” Maybe they can just start out with that.

“My name?” The other repeats, taking a moment of pause, “Why would that matter?”

Why would his name not matter?! A name helps to identify another after their first visit—and especially important if they become closer. This man seems to be trustworthy despite the mystery, one of the few that hasn't treated Jackie like a monster for being different. He has seen Jackie at his worst and didn't flee. He is the only one that seems to have a care for him after watching the 'hero' have a breakdown after being shot. It was this man who helped patch his bullet wound.

“Because, I want to know what to call you.” Jackie plucks up a few pieces of firewood before setting them down on the stovetop, “I have a feeling we will be around each other for a while after all this is done.” There is a feeling in his gut saying that he won't be away from his companion for too long after tonight.

The other's voice is unsettling, the lack of emotion so sudden, “No, you don't.” The expression is serious, something disturbing in his gaze.

“Why not?” He retorts, a bit of frustration in his tone. Why must some be so difficult? The first person he can find who is nice to him and he's too stubborn to give a name, “You're the first person who has spent more than a day with me and not run away or call me a freak!” Entering the living room, the wood is set beside the fireplace, “If there wasn't any intention of knowing each other even a little bit, you would have just given me directions and sent me on my way. So, please, stop avoiding my questions and give me your name.”

Silence lingers around them, deep blue eyes meeting with bright blue ones. There is no reading what is in those eyes, still an enigma.

Finally, he laughs, grinning, “Alright, alright. You win.” He swipes up some of the pieces of firewood, pointing the log at Jackie, “Just call me John. I've. . .” His attention diverts, glancing towards the empty fireplace, “You might find it odd, but I can't remember my name. I had one, but I do not remember it. So, I go by ‘John'.”

John. . . John Doe. The name somebody is given when there is no identification or no way to find a name for the face. His companion does not even remember his name, which is such a sad fate. The thought of forgetting himself, of losing memories, is horrifying to Jackie. To forget one’s self, to start decaying away slowly in the mind is the worst fate one could be given. It would be horrible to be aware of your own mental decay.

“I see. . . That's why you avoided that question,” Jackie replies sheepishly, “I'm sorry about pushing you about that, I didn't know.”

John shrugs, “Nah, it's fine—you weren't doing it to be malicious. You just wanted to get to know me.” The wood is tossed into the fireplace. Outside the wind howls, growing into the raging blizzard, “But, hopefully after this, I'll remember my name.”

So, that's part of the reason they are out here in this wilderness: somebody or something has information about who he was before he became “John”. But that means the other has been out in this area, which would be why he knows where the firewood was. How long ago was that, and why does he need help if he's been there before?

What sort of creature steals a name?

“What I need your help with, is to catch a thief,” John interrupts Jackie's thoughts. Deep blue eyes focus back on the other, watching as the match is lit, “The thief that stole my name. It sounds ridiculous, but this creature has done it before.” Bright eyes stare at the flame, the orange reflecting in his pupils. He is mesmerized by it, intensely watching the tiny flame. Finally, he pulls away his focus, tossing the match onto the logs.

The fire bursts to life, casting the red glow across the floor; creating dramatic shadows on the ground and light wrapping around the furniture. It crackles gently, the wood doing wonders to fuel the flames.

Quickly the cabin starts to warm up, John sitting down in front of the fireplace, “It wanders between different lands, probably originating somewhere in Ireland but can move across continents in a matter of seconds. I've been tracking it for a while, and I finally got a whiff of it here, but I'm not strong enough to take it down.”

John smiles, “That's why I asked you along. If you can help me take down this thing, it will save many others in the future.”

“So, this thing has been around for a while?” Jackie inquires, sitting down next to his companion, “Stealing people's memories.”

The other shakes his head solemnly, “It's the name at first, then it takes more and more. It messes with your electronics if you have any, and then it takes you; you vanish as if you never existed.” If that is the case, does that mean John will just cease? Will he completely disappear suddenly, or will he be dragged away into the blanket of snow? No wonder he wants to at least try to take this creature down before it can take him.

It is exciting, taking down such a creature as his first heroic act! It will be highly beneficial for everyone to take down this thing before it can harm another. Maybe it is not the best approach to execute, wanting to take it down for glory and recognition, but that is a secondary thing. What he wants most is to help.

“It's out here, I don't know why but it has gone out into this wilderness.” John furrows his eyebrows, a frustrated look washing over his visage. Perhaps John has been following this creature for a while without luck and avoiding it taking him. It could come around when the human least expects it, a shadow that creeps up when his guard is down.

“I heard the rumors in the town down at the base of the mountains about people going missing. The campers that left before being taken had forgotten small things and struggled to remember their names. I knew it was that thing. It has disguised as some creature of the snow, mimicking and influencing how people see it. I can change how it looks, mimic others in both physical appearance and vocally. Somehow, it can perfectly mimic a person with their personality and mannerisms without even knowing its victim very well.”

What if this entity finds it amusing that somebody is hunting it? Some monsters can be cruel, twisted in enjoying the suffering of people. Things like that are a perfect enemy for a hero, a perfect test! No more people going missing, no more memories stolen.

“We’ve got probably a few hours before the storm passes over us,” John hums, glancing towards the frost-covered window, “Might be a good time to rest a bit. Warm up and get some energy back.” He stands up, giving a look over to Jackie, “Imma grab some of the soup in m’backpack and heat it up at the stove.”

Jackie nods, watching John pull the can of soup out of the backpack and then another, one for him as well, “There’s some firewood there on the stove so just need to put it in and light it.” John gives a wave in understanding before disappearing into the kitchen.

Alone, deep blue eyes stare at the crackling embers, watching the flames dance in the air. For a moment he simply listens to the howling wind outside. The sound makes him shudder, the sensation of the cold nipping at his flesh and embedding into his bones. At least the fire will take away that memory in due time. There is enough firewood to keep the flames going throughout the night. Seems they will be spending the night in this cabin.

This also gets his curiosity to rise, wondering about the cabin itself. The shelter is far out from others, a strange placement at the base of a hill. There would be a high risk of an avalanche being in such a place, but by the looks of it the cabin has had no difficulty with such things. In their run to this place, he didn't get a glance at how big the shelter was. Inside, he can see that there is a second story along with the kitchen, what looks to be a bedroom from his vantage point, and living room on the main floor. The kitchen is right off from the front door, and the living room on the right with the fireplace on the back wall—the stairway up between the fireplace and the outside wall. The other room is settled behind the kitchen, just a few feet away from the stairway.

What would be upstairs?

Getting up, the decision to head upstairs is made. There could be some helpful things up there. Maybe he can find evidence of this creature or the purpose of this cabin.

No need to bother John telling him that he will be searching around. It will not take him long and besides, it will take a while for the soup to heat up on a wood burning stove.

The stairs creak slightly from his weight, a slow pace up each step. As he heads further away from the fireplace the cold starts creeping back up to cling to his clothing and skin. Ice crystals have formed all over the windows, the white sheet showing off the cobwebs laced in the corners.

This place has not been occupied in a long time. More and more signs along with the rundown condition and the dust reinforce this conclusion.

“What is this place?” Jackie mumbles under his breath, moving down the hallway as he glances into each room. As he reaches the center of the hallway, something catches his eyes. A difference in the room.

The rooms before were untouched, colors blending in together as unsaturated browns and blues covered in layers of dust. Each room has some furniture: a bed, a dresser, chair and desk in a few while others had a desk, chair and empty bookshelves. They look like any other room in an old abandoned house. Everything is long forgotten, a buried memory.

What caught his attention is the lack of furniture in the single room. This room is mostly empty save for a bundle of. . . Something against the wall parallel to the door. It is decently big, white frost at the edges of it.

Jackie shivers when he steps through the threshold into the room. It is degrees colder than the rest of the house, the cold seeping in despite this room not being at the edge.

He approaches the bundle cautiously, a gloved hand reaching out. His hand presses against the thing, grimacing as it feels completely frozen beneath the cloth. Taking in a breath, he pushes the thing back to get a better look at what it is.

It takes everything in his power to stop the scream from echoing out at what he sees. This is not some mass; it is a dead man! Not only is it a dead man consumed by the cold. . . It looks like. . .

“Jackie?” John calls from the floor below, “Where are you? Your food is gonna get cold.”

He is pale, staring in fear at this man. In his frozen hand is a note. Why would there be a note? With effort it is snatched from frost-bitten hands. Jackie frowns, quickly reading the note that is written in jumbled letters, as if done quickly with shivering hands.

_I found it, that thing that took everything from me. It's too strong. . . I failed them. I. . . I can't remember who I failed, but I know I failed them. I'm sorry. If you read this note, get out. Run, **just run**. Dying to the cold is better than becoming its slave. _

This time the shudder rippling through his body is not from the cold but dread pulsing in his very being. ‘Dying to the cold is better than becoming its slave.’ John. . . The real John has a cut along his throat, ice crystals clinging to the open wound and the dry blood. He died before the cold could get to him, before this monster could take away everything.

He needs to get the hell out of here, get out **now**! Jackie gets up, bolting out into the hallway—his pathway cut off to his ‘companion’ at the top of the stairs.

‘John’ frowns seeing where he had left from, “It's not nice to search the places of a stranger. . .” the voice is flat though the face is twisted with a maniacal grin, “You never know what you’ll find snoopin’ around.”

In seconds, the other starts to change, something horrifying. Bones crack and groan as the body shifts and morphs into an inhuman creature.

Finally, Jackie lets out that scream he has been holding in, backing away as a large fist collides with the wooden floor—a hole created from the impact.

Thousands of eyes stare at him, all focused. So many eyes, so many gazes focused on him. He can't see details of this thing, just a general shape and those eyes. Which ones are its own? What sort of shape does it take besides a black mass.

He yelps, jumping back as claws swipe at him, “Shite!” No, there is no way he can defeat this thing, not with his focus so broken. He feels so vulnerable with that gaze burning through him—like he’s weakened just by it looking at him. There must be something. Blue eyes glance around, leaping over the beast, catching himself at the bottom of the stairs. Distance needs to be kept; he needs to give space so he can think of something quickly.

This thing cannot be left alive. It could drag others into this mess.

He needs to focus. Jackie takes a breath in, scanning the room until his eyes fall onto a wall—a support wall.

_It is better to die to the cold than to become its slave._

Swiftly he launches himself forward. This is his only hope of at least stopping this thing for a while.

Easily his fist breaks through the wall, destroying drywall and the wood support. A few more should do it. It is not the fate he wanted to face, but all this time he had been talking and trying to bond with the very thing he wanted to defeat. How could he be so stupid?

“Jaaccckkkiiieee~” an unsettling voice coos out his name, grating in his ears. It is filled with static, a sound like nails raking across a chalkboard haunting the background of the tone, “D-don't ruunnnn. There's n-nowhere to goooo~” the heavy _thud_ at the back of the room is not good. It is down with him.

Another punch to the wall, a quick, frantic movement as he knows time is quickly running out. The cabin already starts to show signs of collapse, the creature's attention brought to the ceiling for a moment. It catches on, letting out a roar of anger and lunges at him.

Predicting it, Jackie ducks down, barely missing the claws. He still gets slammed with the thing's body, sending his back into the remains of the wall as it breaks the rest.

In seconds the structure is unsafe, the walls crumbling and the second floor collapsing.

Jackie stares up, feeling everything go numb. At least he saved people from following this thing into the bitter cold, “You're going down, fiend.”

The voice cackles, in the man's vision all its eyes are starting, “It's just the beginning, hero.” Silence falls as the building is reduced to a single floor, the snow quickly seeping into the warmth and smothering the fire that had been warming the structure. Only stillness and silence remains.

Days later a rescue party comes, finding the remains of a cabin. Inside they discover a body and a man barely breathing. It is a miracle how he survived. Quickly he is taken to the hospital, doctors working to save him.

Save him.

Save the hero.

Save him so he can help ~~me~~ another day.


	4. Contain and Protect I

“Day XX, eighteen o’five. Warm weather outside, a bit of cloud cover that is from the nearby fires, but pretty pleasant otherwise.”

“Can you just get to the point! These recordings are for our notes, not talking about the weather!”

“Yeah, come’on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Alright, alright, calm down!”

A pause before the first voice starts again.

“October 30, 20XX. The fires nearby seem to be upsetting some of the subjects, but nothing that can’t be handled. I, Dr. Nestor-Darling, along with Dr. Fischbach and Dr. McLoughlin are here to study recent captures. Six total and each in varying stages of danger to those around them.”

He gestures for the others to follow along, grinning as it is his first time conducting the recordings, “First we have Subject 1509, ‘The Doctor’. Name unknown, found outside of a small Coloradan town after a SWAT team was called in for a—and I quote—maniac who has been stealing people off the streets. Found him inside an underground facility with a large amount of bodies. Some say he could be connected to the late Dr. Henrik von Schneeplestein who went missing after apparently having a mental breakdown and his office covered in blood when he vanished. We are waiting to get a DNA test to confirm this suspicion.”

“Looks like him. . . just a bit more twisted and really fucked up.” Dr. McLoughlin jokes, “Looks like he went through a real beatin’ and tried to patch it up by himself.”

The audio recorder picks up a growl, muffled from behind the glass wall.

“Doesn’t want to talk to us either, but ‘ve heard him talkin’ to the others.” He snorts.

“And next,” Dr. Nestor-Darling continues, walking to the next cage, “Is Subject 1108, ‘The Magician.’ Found in an old abandoned carnival. Apparently, this one has been gathering the souls of visitors for who knows how long.”

“At least a couple of decades,” Dr. Fischbach hums, “There were some people who had been in the missing persons casebook. Far too gone to recover.”

“We were able to retrieve four people from the Magician, all are currently recovering. They will be submitted for psychiatric examination once they are coherent and given therapy to help cope with their experiences. For now, they will stay in the facility with us.” Dr. Nestor-Darling sighs—all four of them are their friends, a horrible discovery to see what happened to them. It leaves bitterness towards this entity.

“The Magician is more vocal than The Doctor, enjoying conversing with us. It is not too dangerous unless provoked, yet still has not given us information about what it is, not even a name.”

“I’d be much friendlier if you didn’t keep me in this cage.”

“And we wouldn’t if ya would stop trying to steal the souls of people.” Dr. McLoughlin retorts, “That’s why it’s only the three of us workers here now and locked down here with you. Hope you’re happy, you’re stuck with us.”

“Oh? Wonderful!” The entity sounds cheerful about this, “I do prefer to talk to you over these others. Really, talking to ones like my own kind can be dull. Humans are always so interesting!”

“Airight, enough outta you.” The Irish scientist rolls his eyes, “Let’s move on before he tries ta talk my ear off again.”

“One note to make is Subject 1108-b, a man who presents as a ‘zombie.’ He was found with The Magician and the entity itself has claimed that this one was reanimated using its magic. Subject 1108-b, named Robbie, is a rather friendly guy, not kept in a cell due to the fact he has no desire to eat brains but rather chews on teabags and coffee beans. Very helpful around as well and doesn’t bully me like some **other** people.”

“Yawn, come on Doc, we got places to be.” Dr. Fischbach teases.

“Next we have Case 1007, ‘The Hero' or ‘Jackie.’ Not sure about where he came from or his origins, but Jackie possesses great strength, keen sight, and can fly. One of the most human out of the Subjects despite being a superhuman. Very friendly, tries to do what is right but sometimes can have a skewed idea what is ‘right.’”

“Hey!” The voice huffs, “I know what I do is for the better!”

“Though that sometimes means that others get hurt. His intentions were starting to get worse when he came here—he submitted himself willingly to the facility for testing and monitoring. He has became more violent over the time he had been with us. Some unknown reasoning is behind this that he has yet to speak of.” Dr. Nestor-Darling sighs.

“There is a consistent thing between all subjects that will be discussed soon.”

“Don’t say its name. . .” Jackie speaks in a hushed tone, barely caught by the recorder, “it will know.”

“Subject 1104, ‘The Bro’ is the most human out of all. He takes on an appearance of a man in his late 20s to about 30 years old. His consciousness of the world around him is off, seeming to be out of it. His emotions have a way of influencing those around him and at times seems not to be all the—his physical body has been known to become something like a ghost. The Bro can phase through walls at times as if they weren't even there.”

“’ve found him sometimes in the kitchen stealing my fucking tea.” Dr. McLoughlin grumbles, “Only thing that seems to calm him down besides stealing the alcohol around. But best to keep him away from that—alcohol seems to make his influence worse.”

“Yeah, seems that is makes his influence stronger. In some cases, it seems his influence can cause depression and even suicide in those afflicted by him—those labeled as Subject 1104-b, though none last for more than a few hours max due to the influence. His container is reinforced with a special energy to stop his influence from affecting us.”

“Probably one of the best of the group still,” Dr. Fischbach grunts.

“Then, we have subject 3110, ‘The Gentleman’. He has been with us for a few weeks now but has not made a single sound—not a word or even a whisper of noise. We have been unable to check to see if he has vocal cords or it is a choice not to speak. He’s been one of the most difficult ones out of the bunch, often getting out of his cell and trying to escape the facility.”

“Despite its more naïve and innocent appearance, The Gentleman has been known to set up thin, invisible wires in doorways to stop people from chasing after it. Gave Mark a nice bit of a shave,” Dr. Nestor-Darling snorts, “But it has also caused some more severe damages to people.”

There’s a pause, the scientists glancing at the one inside the room, “At times, he seems to have a breakdown, becoming violent—sometimes we find it suspended to the ceiling of its cage, bleeding from the wires and hanging upside-down with black eyes.” The sight of that never gets easier to see.

“Finally, there is Subject 2809, ‘The Inkling’. Another mischievous one, luckily, it can’t get out of its cage now.” There is a snort from all three, Dr. Nestor-Darling continuing after a small pause, “The Inkling was often found inside The Doctor’s cage, what we think could have been some sort of assistance or a meeting. The Inkling seems to deal with an immense amount of ink spilling from its eyes, mouth, and nose. When brought in, Dr. McLoughlin was assigned to do an autopsy on what was thought to be a body. Despite no pulse or heartbeat, the Inkling is alive and moving around. It seems to have a creative side, often drawing on the walls and using it to communicate with the Gentleman. The two seem friendly towards each other, interesting since neither of them seem to talk. We predict the Inkling can talk, but chooses not to talk to us.”

“Perhaps he does, but much like the others he is not happy you have been keeping him trapped!” The Magician snaps, annoyed with this, “Is this all you do, just pace back and forth talking about us as if we do not stand right here? You only poke and prod on occasion, but nothing more.”

“Dummkopf.” The Doctor snorts, sitting in the corner of its cell, “Wir sind hier gefangene. Wir haben keine wahl.”

“Hmn. . . are we the only prisoners here?” The Magician smirks, glancing over to the Doctor, “You know what happens around us, even if we are contained.” The creature’s attention shifts over to the three doctors, watching as they stare at it.

“You haven’t spoken of the connection between us all.”

All six of their attentions settle on the three, unsettling as the ones that can speak say in unison, “ **IT**.”

“Fucking creepy.” Dr. McLoughlin hisses under his breath.

Dr. Fischbach moves forward, frustration clear on his visage, “You all speak of this ‘It’ but you never explain about 'it'!”

The Gentleman flinches, stepping into the back of its cell. The Bro frowns, shifting back as well. They all are scared about the mention of this other thing—what they call Subject 0000. They say nothing beyond 'it will know if we talk about it.’ Despite their curiosity, the three do not try to pry further. If these entities are afraid of this thing, then it is safe to say they do not want to encounter it. Humans would be no match for it if powerful, supernatural creatures were afraid of it.

Though, their superiors are starting to say differently. Their job is to study and find ways to control these creatures. Luckily, no desire to control them as weapons, but to understand and be able to stop them from causing more problems. However, not having Subject 0000 is the most concerning, and making their superiors want to know.

There is always the desire to discover the unknown, because the unknown in the scariest thing to man; there is no true way to prepare for the unknown, one can only hope they have something that can be helpful when it becomes known.

But that means they must summon this creature.

“You. . .” The Bro stares with wide eyes, “You’re not thinking of summoning _it_ are you?!”

Even the Magician and the Doctor tense up, the Magician grimacing, “You will put **all of us in danger**! Not just the three of you, but us trapped in these cells, everyone in this area! It will destroy everything! I’ve spent **years** escaping it after what it did!”

“Hör auf darüber zu reden!” The Doctor snaps, glaring at the one who shares a wall with it, “Du wirst es kommen lassen!”

“You can speak in English!” The other snaps back, the teal glow rising around its body, “They already know what is going on! Chase has already met it, that is why we are here! We all have been given the strings.”

“Chase?” Dr. Nestor-Darling raises an eyebrow, noticing that the Bro perks up a bit at the name, “As in Chase Brody?”

The Bro moves towards the front of its cell, seeming to brighten a bit hearing that name, “That name. . . that is. . . my name.” It seems to bring life to the Bro, his body moving a bit straighter as it reaches the edge of its cage, “How. . . could I forget my name?”

“Because it makes you forget it,” it is shocking at first to hear the Doctor speak English, so used to hearing only German coming from its mouth. There’s still a heavy accent, but it is understandable English, “You forget small little zhings at first: vhere you vere born, your age, zhe name of your first pet. And zhen you forget your name, who you are. . .”

“And then you stop being human,” The Magician finishes the thought, “You lose everything.”

Dr. Nestor-Darling steps back towards the two, his curiosity starting to rise, “How much do you remember, Magician?”

The entity snorts, arms crossing over its chest, “I remember nothing of my past. I am a magician of old and that is it.”

The scientist looks to the Doctor, an unspoken gesture to ask the same question.

“My name is Henrik von Schneeplestein, as you all thought. A German doctor. . . I vas treating a patient, a man who had deep lacerations on his back and missing his eye. . . it vas not a man. It. . . did something,” It seems painful for it to remember what happened, grimacing as it tries to remember.

“The longer it has ya, the more ya forget,” The Inkling speaks up, his voice quiet and hoarse—a voice unused for so long, “It wants ta drag ya down, make ya inta one of its puppets.”

“I almost suffered that fate,” The Magician looks away, glancing up towards the ceiling, “It took years to remove the threads, to think on my own. . . get it out of my head.” It glances across the way, looking towards the Gentleman, “He has dealt with the same, but I believe he was able to break through it.”

The Gentleman glances over, pointing at himself before nodding happily.

“’e is usin’ those threads for his advantage,” The Inkling snickers, recalling all the moments it watched the humans run into the invisible wires. It snorts, feeling the gazes on it, “I remember a’bit more. Shawn Flynn’s t'name, artist. . . I worked at an animation studio. That _thing_ made me hallucinate. . . kill m’fellow employees, m’friends before it took me.”

Chase’s expression falls, tears threatening to trail down his face, “It took my family. . . Grayson. . . Trey. They stood no chance. I could not do anything as it killed them. I. . . barely escaped.”

Jackie finally speaks, still sitting in the corner of his cell, “I fled here because it was starting to influence me. I wanted nothing more than to help people, to use my gifts to better others, to save those who couldn’t. I found a man, he was in trouble—or so he said. He lead me around, kept telling me I could help him with his problem.”

He shudders, pulling his legs closer to his chest, “I barely escaped our first encounter, nearly dying. I never realized it until I harmed a friend that I was getting reckless, starting to manipulate others, and not caring if they got hurt. So, when I realized what was happening, I came here. I. . . I heard from Henrik about this place.”

“How?” Dr. Nestor-Darling furrows his eyebrows, ignoring the chatter between the other two scientists.

“When you are infected by it, when you start losing your humanity, you get strings attached to you,” The Magician interjects, “you find others like yourself. Odd. . . to find others like me after so long of being alone. I was the first, followed by Henrik and then Shawn. Not too long after Jameson came, Jackie and Chase more recent.”

“What about Robbie?” The scientist questions.

“Robbie?” The entity gives a small laugh, “Oh no, he was not one afflicted by _it_. He was a dying man who came to my territory—before I started to lose myself to that thing, I gave him life when I found his body. That was during the time I was experimenting with necromancy. He has stuck with me ever since. A loyal lad.”

The entities all pause, going completely silent as there is a small tremor in the ground. All six give a concerned glance to each other, a silent communication between them. They tense up, seeming to make themselves smaller as if they do not want to be noticed.

Dr. Fischbach opens his mouth to say something until the Inkling hisses, “Shut up! Keep ye gob shut and close yer eyes.” They do not question it, tightly shutting their eyes and not uttering a word. The tremor continues for a moment dying down. The entities continue to remain still, their eyes the only thing that moves to scan the area.

After minutes of deafening silence, the Magician breaks it, “We are safe for now, but no more speaking on the subject. We have spent too long on it and are putting ourselves at risk by doing so.” There is a murmur of agreement from the others.

Dr. McLoughlin sighs, opening his eyes and glancing to the other two, “We should head back ourselves. I'm starving.”

“Yeah,” Dr. Fischbach nods in agreement, “We've got our recording done for the day. Let's head back and get some grub.” The recorder is turned off, the three heading up the stairs and closing the door behind them.

Once they are gone, a frustrated howl escapes the Magician, “We **must** get out of here! We are sitting ducks being trapped in this place! The longer we stay here, the more likely we will be found!” As much as being trapped in this place sucks, it would be worse to be under that thing's control again.” Not again, never again.

“Ja, I vould agree vith zhat.” The Doctor grunts, “But zhey vill not simply let us saunter out, and zhey only take one of us out for tests. Even so zhey have those cuffs to disable our abilities. I can do nozhing to their sanity, your magic is muted, Chase cannot influence their emotions, Jackie loses his strength, Jameson can't make his threads or freeze time and all Shawn can do is spill out normal ink.”

“Not as useful as ya think it would be,” the Inkling dryly jokes, his expression deadpanned, “Not like we can simply use our powers otherwise since they've got us in these fockin' cells. Robbie can't do shite for us since ‘e's under constant surveillance despite bein’ trusted, te bastard humans.”

“We need something!” The Bro grimaces. He knows full well if they sit still the thing would find them. It is a death trap for all of them to be in one place, especially since it is locked to the outside world, and contains a lot of machines. At least none of those machines with screens are down with them. The only mechanical thing near them are the locks to their cages. Even if those were to suddenly unlock, none would trust it. _It_ can manipulate any machine, but it cannot see without a screen, without their eyes.

“Ve vill have to wait for zhe right time to make our moves. Until zhen, ve must make do vith zhe time ve have.” The Doctor grunts, moving itself back to the corner of its cell. It punctures the tip of its finger, using the crimson blood to work on equations that fill its mind, uselessly moving in circles to solve the unsolvable.

The Gentleman huffs, getting the Hero to laugh, “I agree, I hate waiting.”


	5. It is Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** contains eye gore, general gore, death of two characters and a whole lotta eyes. Approach this chapter with caution

“We’ve got problems.” Readings have been steady for so long, very small spikes here and there but nothing large. Lines bounce gently in small waves, tiny arcs that go no further than a few millimeters if that much on the screens.

However, tonight the readings are different. Once in a while, there will be a spike in activity, the brain functions increasing but never beyond a few flickers of life. Waking up is not in the cards, not something that is possible. With all the sedatives and how low they keep brain activity there is no way awakening can happen. Sleep should be forever.

Yet, it started out as a small spike, rising gradually that could be only noticed by scanning over the large mapped out graph—it is rising, the red lines creeping up the white canvas.

“This is impossible.” He frowns, studying the graph, “How can this be?” A few moments pass before he grimaces, “Pump in more sedatives, keep it asleep. If that thing wakes up, we are in trouble. You weren't here,” green eyes glance to the one in the chair, “but this thing was near impossible to capture in the first place. Nobody needs to know about it, which means it cannot get out. Still. . .” A hand brushes through the bond locks, “I should inform security just in case.”

Pushing off from the desk, he turns and pulls out a phone—wincing when he is met with a blast of static, “Shit, get those sedatives in it, now.” The assistant nods, beginning to type in the commands to the console. The lead dials up security, walking out the door and down the hallway, “Hello? Yes, this is Dr. Wilhelm down in lab 13. We need a team down here. . . No, just in case. No, it hasn't escaped but it has been showing activity. Yes yes, I know! You may be security but my rank is higher than—” the voice fades into something that cannot be heard from the room.

The assistant sighs, pushing back dark strands from their face. What a great way to start off their first week of not being an intern.

_H. . . Help. . ._

Their eyes widen, quickly looking around. Was that a voice they just heard? It can't be, they are down here alone since the lead just went upstairs. Only two are allowed in lab 13 at a time. Minimal staff is allotted to be in the area due to whatever this creature is.

Behind the large bullet-proof glass wall is a huge, expansive room drenched in darkness. Within lives the captured subject, monitors taking readings from a distance—it was impossible for them to connect the tubes to any veins and to even get close to it caused damage to the people who tried, both physical and mental damages. So, with the darkness and no trained eye, they only know this thing has many eyes that glow, and it is not human. A monster. But. . .

_Help. . . Me. . ._

What did it do to become a subject like this? They know the superiors want to use it for something, it has been all the higher ups have been taking about as of late. What would the group of elders want with it?

_Hurts. . . It. . . Hurts._

Hurts? Their eyes widen a bit more, standing up slowly from their seat. From the darkness an eye opens, just a sliver of the glowing iris seen. It is in pain? Not surprising with how much sedatives they pump into it and how much trouble they went through to get it contained. Not to mention the elder scientists want to use it for who knows what, to control this entity.

_Help. . . Me. . ._

It is suffering, but shouldn't the sedatives be kicking in by now? It will just drift back into a sleep, right?

_Please. . ._

It is not. Eyes glance down to the monitor, noticing the screen glitching out as the screen pixelates and the image shudders. Nothing is responding! Panic starts settling in, fingers dancing across the keys in a vain hope to get something to work, “Come on! What is going on?!” The sedatives are needed for this creature, they can't be the reason things go to shit.

_Are you. . . Stopping the pain? Turn. . . It off._

Turn it off? They turn their focus up, noticing more eyes opening, starting at then as if anticipating what they will do next. It wants their help. There is a momentary pause, a debate on what to do. It could be easy to simply not do anything and let fate take its course, but at the same time doing nothing could be the end of their job. . . But. . . The soft static buzzes in the back of their skull, a subtle sound creeping up. Maybe they should stop it all, smash the console.

“What the hell is going on?” They jump out of their skin at the sudden voice of the head scientist, whipping around to find him right behind, “Why is the sedatives not working?”

“I d-don't know,” the younger scientist swallows down their anxiety for the situation, peeking a glance towards the darkness. The eyes are slightly narrowed, “I put in the command for the sedatives but nothing happened!”

_Liar. . ._

The ground beneath them tremors lightly, the older scientist grabbing hold of the chair, “No no no! Move!” He shoves the chair away, the wheels taking it a foot or so at as he starts furiously typing—only for a few seconds when he curses loudly.

The screen turns to static, a grating, high-pitched noise emanating from muted speakers, “Shit! No, not now!” He seems panicked, fruitlessly typing at the keys in some hope the commands will go through. Beside him, the newer scientist keeps their focus on the darkness, meeting the single eye that is alone in the darkness, "They can't get here for days!"

_Why?_

“Why what?” They whisper in response to the ethereal voice.

_Why did you hesitate?_

Because it cannot be free. Perhaps innocent or not, no matter what this creature could and has shown to be dangerous in the past. They cannot simply let it free with a clear conscious.

_Fine._

It brings a chill through their spine, wincing as the subtle static becomes more apparent, stronger in the back of their mind and into the forefront. The voice is not so soft anyone, something that drills into their skull. It is not pleased with their choice.

 _So be it, puppet_.

“Puppet?” They speak louder than what they want, the older scientist hearing.

He glances from between the blackness and then the other, “You. . . You hear it, don't you?” His voice had no attempt to hide the fear in it, accented by the wide green hues, “Don't listen to it! Ignore it! It will take your mind if you—” he cannot continue his words, screaming out as the static sound screeches into the open air. Hands press against his ears, tensing up as the other mimics his actions. He gives a scream, growing louder with the ringing. . .

Moments before his skull cannot handle it anymore.

It is a sickening _pop_ as blood and brain matter splatters across the console and the walls, coating the white lab coat in crimson red. The younger scientist cries out in fear before hiding beneath the small nook under the console—just moments before the glass shatters into thousands of tiny little shards.

Silence lingers for beats of time, only to be broken by movements; something slides down from the barrier between the two rooms onto the floor. From beneath the blackened thing there are small strips of a bright fluorescent green giving off a small glow. A tail. It flicks slightly as it settles upon the ground. Armored and thick, like that of a Xenomorph.

The deep chuckle gets them to hold their breath, claws tightening against the broken wall.

“ _I can smell you, puppet._ ” To hear that voice aloud is different, horrifying. It is layered in with the static and a second voice just slightly off pitch to the forefront voice—how it sounds like it is coming from an old, decrepit radio that breaks up every few beats.

“ _You c-cannot hi-ide from me._ ” It brings chills down their spine, making their back press further against the back of the console. Hands press against their skull, a silent begging to make it go away—a childish ritual that so many wished would be true. Just because something is unseen does not mean it is not there.

They scream out when so many eyes meet with their own pair. A wide, sharp grin that seemingly glows against the blackened skin greets, all those eyes focused on them, “ _Found youuuuu._ ” How many eyes does this thing have?!

It does not hesitate, a clawed hand grabbing hold of their neck before dragging them out from underneath. They kick and cry out in fear, their feet dangling as the creature lifts them up, “ _You could have hi-hidden bett-ter._ ” It giggles, the sound accompanied by a burst of static. The screens around them are going haywire, static crawling across the surface with pixels distorting from their positions and the images cracking.

It leans in closer, not a breath taken even as it speaks, no air distorted as if it is not even making the action of speaking physically, “ _Game o-over, puppet. Time to-to assimilate the we-eak._ ”

“Assimilate?!” A single word could bring so much fear into one person—the appearance of this thing being a sway to make words even worse, not simple empty threats, “W-what do you mean?!”

All those eyes staring at them, watching for a perfect moment to strike, to destroy. They all blink at different times, still staring them down. Some green slits in the sea of black settle on the creature's body, all over its form, while others seem to float ethereal in their presence. It is all so dark save for the dim, broken glow of the screens. Terrifying, a creature of nightmares.

How could it seem so small and fragile moments before begging for help to such a monstrous creation, something that puts nightmares to shame?

“ _Assimilate~”_ it repeats the word with a purr, a green tongue trailing across its lips, “ _Destroy the weak, fuel the reality. Y-you are. . . unworthy of my gi-gift._ ” Its head jerks to the side, a burst of static echoing into the empty air. It lets out a laugh, the grip tightening around their throat, letting the laugh rise in volume and up in pitch as hands reach towards the arm holding the frail body up, " _You are n-not one wh-ho can accept my gift_."

It seems to be fascinated by these movements, amused by the actions. The head tilts, all eyes still dead focused on their face, so many eyes watching. What is this thing?

The scientist is merely able to let out a scream before they are slammed into the ground, darkness and numbness overtaking every sense. . .

. . .

 _Thump_.

The sound is the first thing that registers in their waking mind.

 _Thump_.

It happens again, bringing more sensations, starting with the feeling of being dragged across the ground.

 _Thump_.

That one they felt. Their head bumps against the ground, bouncing hard. No sound escapes them despite the rush of pain in the back of their skull, unable to speak. It is like they have somehow forgotten how to do so.

In fact. . . Where are they? Who are they? Their mind is hazy, nothing coming to the front of their mind. Why can they not remember anything?

Is this even real?

All they can hear is the steady sound of distant steps and that static hissing in their head. That static is always there. . . always present.

 _Thump_.

Another bump of their head against the ground. It is in a rhythm, a repeated movement with a consistent interval. . . They are going down a hallway, through multiple doorways. Are they still down there? There. . . the laboratory, that is what this place is. Whatever is dragging them is taking them down the hallway, deeper into the lab.

This thing. It is. . . the test subject.

No more times does their head bounce against the ground. More sensations return, however, feeling something wrapped around their ankle. Claws dig into their leg, piercing through flesh and down close to the bone. The pain has long gone numb in their leg, crimson blood oozing down from between flesh and claws.

How long have they been dragged?

Everything settles to a stop, their leg being dropped to the ground carelessly. A minuscule light glows from nearby, a single broken screen the source.

One eye opens slightly, glancing up to be met with all those eyes, green irises staring down as the creature looms over their body. The large tail swishes slowly across the ground, the green glow seeping beneath the blackness as it moves, the light rippling in intensity with each swish.

They still cannot scream, cannot let out the fear as they stare into those eyes. All watching.

It smiles, the mouth seeming to split into an eerie green line spiked and curved to imitate a line of grinning teeth, “ _Puppet’s awake_.” The voice purrs, sounding so clear, as if the thing is speaking right into their ear, “ _Good. Awake in time for the end_.”

The human quickly shakes their head, trying to cry out their pleas for their life, but no sound but a whine escape.

 _Pitiful_.

It chuckles, stepping closer before the body leans forward, down far enough that its face hovers close to theirs, “ _The weak have no place in my **new reality**._” Claws linger dangerously close to their face, one trailing down the cheek, leaving a red line to bleed, “ _Squirm, pretender of importance, your pitiful existence ends_.”

The laugh rises, becoming painful and horrifying—loud as it pierces through their skull. So high pitched, echoing with that irritating static. This creature slams both hands down on either side of the body, the tail and other small tail-like things curling around the legs—constricting around the limbs. It all tightens, feeling as the human squirms and tries to cry out.

 _Foolish_.

Green eyes watch, all hundreds watching and unblinking—some wander their gaze around, each moving at different times. Finally, it springs into action, hands moving as the tips of the sharp claws dig into the scientist’s eyes.

They can scream this time, trying to thrash as the tails tighten their grip on the legs, curling up further to hold the torso, “ _Scream, scream, little puppet!_ ” One hand pulls back violently, tearing out the broken eye with the nerve stem; then the other quickly following suit to remove the shattered eye, “ _You need no eyes to see the end_.”

It sniffs at the organs before popping both into its mouth, green tongue wrapping around its finger before retreating into the sharp mouth. The purr is unmistakable, satisfaction with the taste. Its favorite treat.

Another sound comes from it, a loud howl before teeth tear into the scientist’s neck.

Blood splatters against the walls as more and more flesh is torn from bone, parts tossed aside—placed around to leave a sight for those who come upon the scene later. It knows somebody will come later, they always do.

Green eyes focus towards the single camera hanging on the wall. It studies this device, watching as the little red light returns and then it gives two wide, glowing grins, “ _All will be assimilated_. . .” Before lunging and tearing the camera off the wall.

In the later days of the month they finally enter Lab 13, met with the putrid scent of rot and decay. Little remains of the two scientists—the leader missing his head and the assistant a large crimson mess of blood, their teeth lined across their forehead and pressed into the flesh. Eyes are completely gone, trails of blood streaked across the ground and leading to one of the air vents nearby. The subject of Lab 13 is nowhere to be seen, all records of their tests erased and the systems completely fried.

Scrawled across the wall behind the mess is words none can understand, an ancient language they cannot comprehend.

_See you soon. . .  
_


	6. Static

“Static is usually my friend. . .” he mumbles under his breath, walking through the empty caverns, “but when there's no TV or any sort of tech around, it's not so comforting.” As a kid he would end up staring at a television on a channel of static, a sound that eventually became a comfort to him. Yet, sometimes he would hear a voice, a voice he cannot remember what it sounds like or the conversations, but he knows it was there.

Nobody believed him however, just thought it was like every other child having an imaginary friend. No, his friend was real, just never showed up or just did not feel like showing up. But, his friend was there. Throughout it all he would hear soft static in the distance and then the voice. Maybe that is part of the reason he would end up watching channels of static.

Yet, as time went on hearing the static without the presence of technology was odd. Now, it is concerning—especially since it has been years since he had heard from his childhood friend, not since he moved out on his own. He cannot recall the last time he had heard from that ethereal voice. . .

“Hey?” He calls out, wondering if he could get the voice again, “You still around?”

Silence. He is about to give up before the static dies down so suddenly.

“Patrick.” The voice speaks his name, getting him to jump in surprise. Whipping around brown eyes widen upon seeing a figure—one familiar to a friend of his but a bit different.

Pat lets out a breath, relaxing a bit, “Where have you been? You've been frigging gone for years!” For some reason at the moment it doesn't disturb him with the fact his old friend looks like one of his other friends, “Why are you finally showing up and physically this time?” It feels soothing to have the presence of the other around him.

The other laughs, shaking his head, “I'm not a hallucination because of being lost in this cavern of that is what you are starting to think.” He flips back a bit of the long brown hair, giving a grin, “I needed some time away to work on things but seems you called me back, or something did.” Steps are taken forward, gradually closing the distance between them as they continue to travel through the cavern, “Look at you, quite grown up since the last time I saw you.”

“Not that I'm not grateful for the company or the reunion—” Pat frowns a bit, letting his steps settle to a complete stop, watching the other mimic it, “—but it's odd that you are showing up now and here out of all places.”

He continues the grin, giving a nonchalant shrug, “Can't question everything my old friend.”

“Okay, but can I ask?” Pat waits for the other to nod, “I used to call you Jack, yeah?” Another nod, “And a couple years ago I met Seán, who also kinda goes by Jack and you two look a lot alike.” The look on Jack's face grows a little dark, a little concerning, “Is there some connection between you two?”

“Not sure what you mean by that,” Jack glances away, eyes half lidded as he avoids making contact—a sign of not wanting to press the subject, “But, we should not linger here, friend. These caves are dangerous—” both the attention of Jack and Pat move to the path behind them when a howl echoes into the stone abyss.

“—with **that** thing lurking around,” Jack finishes before turning to Pat, “And most likely it's not alone. Heard that these creatures lurk in groups.”

“Shit,” is the first thing that comes from the shorter of the two, “I thought that the rumors of creatures in these parts was just another story based off superstition. Kinda like a haunted carnival.”

Snickering, Jack takes the lead, “I don't think that carnival is just a rumor.”

_Wade?! Gar?! JP?! Where are you guys?! Somebody answer me!  
_

Pat rolls his eyes, giving a glance over his shoulder at the pitch blackness behind before following, “How do you even know? It's some place in Ohio—nearby where Wade lives, I don't think you have ever been in that area.” He lets his steps settle into a sync with the others, “Probably end up like our joke with the Loveland Frogman, but hey—” he shrugs with a grin, “—at lest we can have fun with it.”

“Unless you've already done it.” Jack's words gets the advancements through the cavern to stop dead. He glances over, pausing a few steps later, “Something wrong? You are looking spooked.”

Quickly Pat shifts to a narrowed expression, hands on his hips, “Man, you've always been cryptic, but now you're talking like you've got some information of the future or this is some hallucination of mine.” It can't be a hallucination, it is too real. . .

_Run! Run, Pat, run!_

_I can't leave you guys!_

_Just go! We'll meet up just run and don't stop!_

An echoed growl rises in volume, reverberating against the stone. Inhuman. . . A bit familiar somehow. No, this has to be real. . . or maybe it is a dream?

“Thief!” An odd voice howls out, Pat whipping around while Jack turns slowly. Standing in front is something unfamiliar yet familiar in his mind. A large creature that holds the shape of a man but looms over any person in height—cloaked in a black cape save for the cat-like mask and the wide grin. Familiar. . .

_I failed you, I’m so sorry guys._

_It's not your fault JP, we didn't expect this to happen. . ._

_We stood no chance against something like that._

_We'll find a way out, don't worry._

Jack stares with not a hint of fear in his eyes, a slight glance when movement twitches to their right. Pat glances over as well, noticing another figure—one that is haunting as it holds onto the stone walls—hanging slightly sideways, the ribbon-like extensions and the tattered ends of its body swishing slightly in the air. Pale irises in an abyss of black purely focus on Jack, not even a glance to the other human.

The creature in front brushes the black cape away, four fingers from four different hands pointing accusingly at Jack, “You dare steal my catch?!” It hisses, snapping fingers as a teal glow surrounds both humans, “I don't know how you wormed your way in here, thief, or how you slipped him out, but I will not allow this to slide!” The aura feels warm, dulling out some of his senses, making Pat feel fatigued. It becomes a struggle to keep his eyes open, to keep conscious of the surroundings. Slowly it is starting to become less and less like reality.

_Where am I? This can't be. . . Wade? Gar? JP? Is that you?_

Jack still does not flinch, staring with half opened eyes at the creature. How can he stare this thing in the face without even looking away for a moment, “And what does the other one have in this? Invited him to play?”

The larger creature grimaces, breaking the grin the human had began to wonder if it could even be changed, “None of your business.” It snaps its teeth—Pat flinching and truly beginning to wonder what is going on with Jack **still** not moving away, “Shall you say your peace or give up willingly?”

“Jack?” Pat tenses up, fear crawling up his throat. It is not like he's a coward or not sensible in a crisis situation, but this is dealing with things outside of a “normal" crisis; dealing with things that are far from normal in any sense of the word.

Jack hums softly before glancing over—in the process of looking he makes eye contact with the other creature; instead of keeping on path, his focus settles on the form clinging to the wall.

The smaller creature growls, as if getting ready to attack just moments before it itself freezes in fear. Pale eyes widen, its body starting to shake a bit, “N-no. No. No. No!” It backs away a few paces, looking to the other with the growl rising from it—still looking terrified, “Not **that**.”

“That?” The other repeats the word before narrowing on Jack. It studies for a beat before it too expresses fear, noticing its magic has done nothing to that one, “S-shite! That's how. . .” It hesitates for a moment before springing into action.

Pat does not even get a yelp of surprise out before the one swooshes past and swipes him from the ground—a moment later plucking up the other creature. Why such a sudden change? He tries to object to this all, memories coming up to the forefront—the lack of memories of the last while. . . Since they had explored that carnival. How did Jack know that?! He was not there!

It all returns in that single moment he is brought further away, the static starting to clear from his mind. This creature had taken their souls! Why the hell is this thing helping him now, or is this just a ploy to get its plaything back? No, he does not want to be some puppet to play with! He has to get out, he has to find the others!

“How long has that thing been talking to you?” The Magician demands, hiding both beneath the black cape—the human and its fellow supernatural creature, “How long have you been around it? When did it take you?!” The questions are thrown out in quick succession.

“W-what?” It is all disorienting, the aura still radiating off the mortal body, “What do you mean?” He can see beneath the black cloak, the odd core-like crystal floating inside the creature's chest, or the empty space of its chest. The other creature is about his size, just a bit bigger—still not looking over at him. He wants to leave, to slip out of the grasp but his mind is too hazy. The fall would probably break a few bones, and even so he does not know where he is or which way is home.

“How long have you known that one?” The creature with him beneath the cape asks in a calmer tone.

Pat frowns, “Since I was a kid?”

The answer only gets the one to push more, “Are you sure?” A pause, the Magician quickly turning before jumping through a small portal created into the air, “Do you hear the static?”

The static? For once, both creatures let the silence linger, giving the human time to listen to the openness, to check.

No static, “Not right now.”

“Good.” With that, the cloak of deep blackness is partially taken away, revealing what looks to be an ancient home, walls of stone and remnants of shelves and disheveled books strewn around the area. Once it is assumed they are safe, the Magician pulls the human out from beneath its cloak, setting him down upon the ground, “It cannot easily get into this realm.”

“What the fuck?!” The sudden shift out of Pat shocks the larger entity and startles the smaller one, “Why are you suddenly helping me after fucking taking my soul and doing the same with my friends?!”

The grin falters on the Magician's face, “I understand it was not the best circumstances—” it gives a glare to the other creature’s snort, “—but you see, it is hard for us to fight our nature. Just like, as example, which I don't recommend, if you look my companion in the eyes, he will attack you.” The other one frowns and quickly glances away knowing the gaze would fall upon him, “It is nature to him, something that cannot be helped. As I cannot fight my nature when it is the change of the season or the absence of or full moon. However—”

It snaps its fingers, teal mist consuming its form before reappearing as the height of a normal human—the unsettling grin changed to something human save for the sharper canines, “—perhaps it is a stroke of luck for both of us—for all of you.”

Pat simply gives a raise of an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you have known ‘Jack' for a long time or it simply implanted those thoughts into your mind. No matter the result between those two it does not bode well, Weaver of Static.” It glances to the other, noticing that he has shifted to something human.

“It stalks its next victim, implants itself into their life with a desire to be part of it in some way.” The Magician continues, inviting both to sit down, “You start hearing static when it is near, hallucinations that get more gruesome over time. When it wants to take you, you start getting worse—more hallucinations, your decisions starting to change and you forget things.”

Teal eyes focus dead on the single human that sits across the table from it, “That means for some reason, it wants to take you. . . And so quickly after it has attacked two others.”

“Two others?” Pat echoes the words, still uneasy about the situation but he cannot lie curiosity is starting to grow, “It is after others?”

“Already got them,” the other huffs, starting at the wooden surface of the table, his finger tracing along the grain, “I was one of them, the newest. . . Or well maybe second newest.”

“Oh no no no,” the human's head shakes, denying the very idea, “There's no chance in becoming a victim of that **thing**.” How could this thing just insert itself into his life? If it is true, somehow it made it so natural to slip in, manipulating every memory, sliding in hints and making adjustments to worm all the way into his life. How?

A bitter laugh escapes the magician, “You think any of the six of us made the choice to be taken by that thing? We do not choose to be taken, it decides and we have very little choice.” It leans back in the chair, one arm draping over the back—so relaxed despite the weight of the topic, “A snake, striking at the perfect moment; a spider weaving its web to capture its prey. If you are the Weaver of Static, then perhaps you share a trait with it, why it had decided to come after you.”

“Titles are not given without purpose behind them. I am called ‘the Magician' because of my powers, my abilities and what I did as a mortal man. Even the titles of your friends and yours hold purpose, a power of your own,” the Magician hums, though lets out a snort as its expression shifts into something deadpanned, “but do not expect me to give some grand reveal or cliché thing as such. Perhaps you will never discover that, and it will be beneficial.”

“If you cannot muster up that gift—” the other picks up a large splinter from the wood, looking it over as if it could hold his interest, “—then **it** will not have interest in you.”

Pat continues to frown, fidgeting in the chair, “So, if it doesn't have interest that means we can go, right?” He huffs at the skeptical look from the magician, “Listen,” he will try something else then, “Do you really want to risk having me near when that thing has already proven it can slip me away so easily? Having the others as well could be dangerous. Just think how bad it'll be if _it_ finds out you have things it wants.”

A pause of silence. Harsh teal eyes narrow beneath the mask, a spark of light beneath the white surface. It scoffs, “You must believe yourself to be cunning with that suggestion.” The creature watches, its expression hard to read, unsure if it is angry to debating on the response it will give. The mask obscures much of the humanoid face, only that usual smile and vibrant eyes visible. Not enough to get a good look at its eyes besides the brilliant teal, not enough to get a good read on its emotions. Just another odd mystery.

Finally, it gives the cue of a small laugh to its emotions. At least it is amused or maybe a little impressed by the words, “Not what I expected from a mortal. Perhaps you are. . .” the words trail into silence, the body tensing up a bit. Something is off, something is not right.

Quickly, it stands up. Hands glimmer with sparks of magic with the tension rising in the air. It growls, an unspoken command for the two others to get close to it. The other creature helps Pat as it guides both to behind the larger one.

Coldness has risen, clinging to their skin, threatening to bite into the flesh. The once pleasant and mysterious atmosphere has begun to decay into something more unsettling and chilling. Around them bits of fragmented stones levitate idly in the open air, shuddering with the shifting mood. Something is definitely wrong.

“You need to leave, **now**.” The elder creature growls, one hand moving to create a portal out—attention directed at both Pat and the other creature, “Both of you. Chase, my friend, stay with them, you know when _it_ is around. Keep them safe.” It does not give a chance of arguing when a shimmer of a sticky green catches its attention—the moment it notices, the Magician turns and pushes both back with a burst of energy.

When it turns back around to face the front, it is met with acidic eyes, all staring it down, “Skipping the formalities of a disguise this time?”

The creature gives a wide grin, leaning down to meet the Magician face-to-face. All those eyes focus, unblinking, “You almost sound surprised about that fact, little puppet. You are the most experienced out of them all. . .” It gets closer, taking in the scent with a deep inhale—a deep purr rumbling out of its throat, “You can recognize me so easily now, especially after you took my new little plaything. Why bother playing pretend when we can get down to business?”

“What is the point, Glitch?” The Magician grimaced, taking a step back to give space for it to reshape into its natural form. Two sets of arms cross over its chest, “Come to attack me for taking away the new obsession?” It squares its shoulders, not letting show the fear it has for this other. This is what made the mortal man into the eternal creature, “You know the last time I was able to resist you, and I will do it again.”

The words get the larger creature to let out a maddening fit of laughter, echoing in two voices as it rises in pitch. It shakes its head, grinning sharply, the large tail flicking across the ground, “Oh, do you really think you can deny me?” The Glitch closes the distance between them once again, its body twitching and convulsing violently before snapping back into focus, “You **can't**. You can only delay the inevitable, delay becoming my puppet again. . .” a clawed hand cups the other’s chin, forcing it to look up into its main eye, “You cannot resist me forever. Nature of the beast will overtake morality. Don't worry, you should remember how freeing it is to embrace that nature.”

“I was a prisoner!” The Magician hisses, snapping all its sharp teeth—as if it could challenge the other creature, “There is no freedom in being a puppet!” Even if at the time it had no care for being a puppet—the only thought processes in its mind was to please the master and to cause chaos for the pitiful mortals—all of it in the aftermath struck hard and heavy.

All the violence and blood, the screams and cries for mercy falling on uncaring ears felt so natural and wonderful under that thing’s strings. Yet. . . The strings never go away, they just lose tension, they lose length. It is easy to forget about the threads without the puppeteer there to guide them. It will never admit to the sadistic pleasure it felt hearing those sounds, the breaking of bones, the cries of others on the side waiting for their turn. . . the sounds all those souls made when torn from the body and the echoes still mixing in with its own thoughts.

“Hmn. . .” It gives a half-lidded stare, mere centimeters away from pressing its head against the other’s, “You won't care in the end,” it moves without warning, not even a twitch to hint the shift; claws wrap tightly against its jawline, the other hand grabbing hold of the torso, pulling it in close.

The voice is worse, layered and filled with static—grating on the ears, “I’ve told you over and over again. T̶͓͈̄̓h̷̛̜e̸͍̬͐ṟ̶̾e̸̡͝ ̴͎̋ȋ̵͉s̵̅͜ ̵̧̌n̶̙̗̈́ọ̷̰̔̀ ̸̝͆̉ͅë̸͎́s̸̯c̷̛͇̏a̵̠͖͗̔p̴̪͊̍ḯ̷̮͆ṇ̸̜̏g̵̟̯̀ ̴̡̓m̴͓͂͠é̵̼̩--” It leans in, whispering a name that gets the Magician’s eyes to widen beneath its mask. **His** name. . . **its** own name.

“Don’t forget. . .” the Glitch purrs into the Magician’s ears, petting the side of the other's face with a single claw, a smooth and slow motion repeating, “Or perhaps you have—such a finicky memory you have—forgotten, but you made a deal with me. You helped with a few, but your side of the deal is not complete. . .” It gives a hard yank, quickly severing the other creature’s head from its body—a simple stroke of strength to break the magic holding the two pieces together, “Now, why don’t we stop playing the fool and get down to business. I have a job for you. . .”

It chuckles, trailing the green tongue up the side of the Magician’s head, tracing over the right eye, “But first we need another. . . another dear old friend.” It barely waits, watching as the teal glow fades into a greener tinted one, the body relaxing against its hold, “There we go~”

It sets the head back down onto the body, its own head tilting as the other creature hums softly. The Magician’s grin grows wider to expose all the rows of sharp teeth. It breathes in a deep breath, humming, “Who are we going for?” The eyes beneath the mask give off an eerie green glow, unsettling when coupled with the dangerous grin.

The Glitch purrs, “The Doctor.”

“What about the Weaver of Static and his friends?”

“We will get them later~ For now, we have an old friend to find. . ."


	7. Final New House

You take in a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of your home as the world outside grows colder. As fall begins to roll in so does the pumpkin spice, the perfect weather for sweaters, chills in the air and the changing of the leaves from greens to beautiful reds and oranges and yellows. It is a beautiful sight to behold as the world transitions from the warmth of summer to the cold of winter.

Where you live is nice around fall, a nice balance to the seasons surrounding it but with a bit more cold than heat. You always hear around from others in regards to the weather: it is easier to put on clothes than it is to take them off before it becomes illegal.

It is up for debate whether you prefer being hot or cold. For now, you enjoy the coolness of the coming autumn night.

Though. . . Something feels off about this evening. Glancing outside your window, you notice nobody on the streets outside. Some rumor that has reached your ears speaks of some curse that happens at the darkest hours of the night on the day of a new moon; without the light of the moon to protect yourself, you are a sitting duck for whatever scares these people into locking themselves inside. Every door is locked, curtains drawn. It leaves the town in fear as the hours close in to the night.

You may be new to this town, but it is easy to get gossip and rumors if the right people are sought out. Of course, sometimes those people seek you out instead of the other way around—or, in your case, a kind soul wanting to give the warning to the newcomer.

The young woman had come up to you with her girlfriend, concerned since you did not seem to want to leave the park early. She was the one to tell you to not be out at night during a new moon, but like many others she did not know why exactly they kept inside.

“Just lock your doors, close your windows and turn off your lights and electronics by sunset. If you do that you should be fine.” She told you in a caring voice. She had given you a perplexed expression when you asked as to why you had to do those things, “I'm not sure, but it has been what my parents told me and what they were told by their parents. They only say there are some things that come on a new moon that will take away anyone who is out on the streets or does not conceal themselves in the darkness completely.” This explains why all shops would close early on such days—a message left in their signs and on websites saying they will close early on the nights of a new moon.

Keep it all closed until sunrise because of this superstition.

Part of you finds this rumor to be totally ridiculous! Yet, at the same time you do not want to risk it—you would rather not be dragged away by some creature to be eaten alive or tortured until you begged for death. So, you sit on your couch, reading a physical book as the sun starts to disappear behind the horizon. You did not feel like watching television, and your phone sits on the coffee table you prop your legs up on.

Shifting, you close the book and set it on the cushion next to you. The pages can only hold your attention for so long before you cannot focus no more. Setting your feet down upon the ground, you stretch your arms above your head and let out a large yawn. It is getting to that time.

You stand up from your spot, walking over to your window to pull the shade—you need to pull that too, cover it so maybe you can keep your lights on a little longer. A sigh escapes you, letting go of the cord and turning back to your couch.

Your phone vibrates, surprising you. You forgot to turn it off.

Electronics apparently need to be turned off as well by. . . Well, by this time. Time went by faster than you thought. Not like this thing or whatever will know within a few moments, right?

Picking up your phone, you glance at the number.

Eyebrows furrow as you stare intensely at your phone to read and recognize the number. It is not familiar and every time you think you can read it you suddenly cannot remember it. What is going on?

Hesitantly, you open the text message, feeling as if the room has grown considerably colder.

[ ??? ] I̸̢̛͙ ̵̛͈͖͜S̸̡̺̈͜E̵͚̤̎Ė̶̝̰̑͘ ̸̯̈́̊Y̵̲̾̌O̴͕̮͂U̶̪̦̪͂̆̔

You quickly look around, frowning as all your window curtains are drawn. How can this person see you?

Another text, this one from a different number. . . Maybe? You can at least predict it is a different number than the last one, appearing differently within the chat.

[ ??? ] Did you listen to their warnings?

Another text, but this one seems to be in response to the other.

[ ??? ] Apparently not since they are reading this.

A pause before three come in, all saying the same thing

[ ??? ] _TIME TO PLAY_

You hesitate for a moment, starting dumbfounded at your phone. Is this some locals playing a prank on you because you are new? For a moment you doubt this is real. . .

All until you hear something slam against your front window, like a large bird hitting it. . . Or somebody purposefully slamming their hands against the glass. This is enough to get you to drop your phone as you scramble to find a place to hide.

If they are right in front of your window, there will not be enough time to run to your room or anywhere out of the living room. You will have to take your chances hiding under the couch.

As you slip beneath the piece of furniture, the sound of shattering glass echoes throughout your living room. The pieces fall to the ground, clinking against each other as they pile onto the wooden floor. The curtains are most likely torn to shreds, an expensive repair that will need to be done as soon as possible—but that is a thought for later.

Then silence. You hold your breath, hands pressed over your mouth to not let the sound come out loudly to reveal your hiding spot. Tense seconds pass as you begin to wonder again if this is some sick prank.

What the hell is even going on?! This town seemed so peaceful to you in the days you have been here; none of the residents seemed mean enough to pull a prank like this.

“My my. . .” The voice gets you to tense up again, just moments after you had tried to relax yourself. You do not recognize that voice—it sounds almost like a German accent, “Somebody didn't listen to zhe locals. . .” Footsteps gently patter against the rug on your floor, stopping nearby the table lamp.

Another laughs, “Such fools. Perhaps they wanted to avoid making this one a sacrifice,” this other intruder has a distinct Irish accent, lingering more towards the window, “Hmn. . . they really didn’t change this setup much since the last one.

You can spy a hand reaching down and swipe up your phone. The hand is oddly pale, as if the person is seconds away from fading into being a corpse. You hear something mumbled about your phone, but they are quiet and far enough away you cannot properly hear what is said.

“Zhey have been avoiding making sacrifices,” the first one snaps at the other, the tension in the air almost palatable, “Seems zhe new generation has grown enough of a conscience that they do not want to follow what they were taught. Fools. As if locked doors will stop us.”

“As if you are one to talk,” the second one smugly retorts, a laugh rising when there is a challenging growl, “Didn't you live here once, another of the common folk that waste away their mortality with menial jobs and meaningless hours of figuring out what to do with your limited time? As I recall you once saved these pitiful fools.”

Before the German voice could respond another enters, their tone harsh, something off about it that rubs you the wrong way, “Enough out of you two!” Another pair of steps approach the couch, getting you to hold your breath once again, “Shall I leave you children to bicker and fight each other while I gather the prey?”

The third one lingers by your hiding spot, spiking your anxiety, “You know all too well if you do not assist, you get nothing of the hunt!” This third intruder must be their leader or at least some figurehead. Just by listening to their voice, the power they command with mere words the fear their voice strikes into your hear,t you cannot question why this one is in charge.

“As if we have to search for them!” The second voice muses as they join the third over by the couch. Their voice lowers, deepening in tone and just loud enough for you to hear, “I could smell the little mortal’s fear long before I could sense them.”

A pause, then then third snorts, slowly stepping away from the couch you hide beneath. They stop and turn around, the words purred out, “Then get the pathetic little mortal.”

You do not even have a chance to react before the couch is encased in an odd teal-green glow before being thrown back, instantly revealing your cowering body that was hidden beneath. You do not dare to stand, only giving a glance to the three. Three pairs of eyes stare down at you, all smirking.

They kind of look like each other, all about the same size with dark brown hair—but styled differently and with different lengths. Despite how human they look, the more you stare at them, the more unsettled and uneasy you feel. They are not human, only wearing the guise of one.

So, the people were not lying that something would take those who did not listen to the warnings. But. . . What do they plan to do?

As if reading your mind, the one with their hair spiked to the side--the leader of the group—grins at you, “Oh, you should be worried little thing. They tried so hard to warn you, to keep you safe, but so many newcomers fuck up their first night. . . Just as you did.”

“And zhere are no second chances in zhis life,” the German accented one chuckles, stepping up to your left side—the other one approaching your right. They quickly close off any hope of escape with the leader standing in front of you.

“I know, you little mortals are so curious about us,” the leader muses, lifting your chin with a finger—only to cackle when you try to jerk your head away from the touch. Not seconds after, your chin is tightly gripped by a powerful hand, green eyes dead focused on your eyes, “Always amusing when they try to struggle so fruitlessly. Why don't we go some place more comfortable and we can properly welcome you to my world?”

“I’d rather not,” you finally find your voice to speak up, to talk to these guys, “I would rather stay here.” Blinking once, you gasp in shock when the area is completely different.

Everything is dark, an empty abyss surrounding. If you did not have the sensation of ground beneath your feet, you could have sworn you were floating in the air. What you do know is that you are not in your house anymore. Hell, you may not even be on Earth or at least not the same plane of existence.

“Welcome to my realm,” you turn around to the source of the voice, yelping in surprise with what your gaze is met with.

There is still the three of them, but they are much different, larger as their bodies take on something more horrific and monstrous.

“Let's not be rude,” the leader snorts—its appearance is just another assurance as to why it is the leader—it even stands taller than the other two, the body a deep black that makes it hard to see if not for the glowing green of its body, “Mortals like to know names before they try to survive the fun.”

The one closest grins, shifting the large wings that sprout from its hips—a large bat-like one and a bird-like one—before giving a mock bow, “I am zhe Doctor! Don't let zhe appearance fool you, I can still easily tear open your chest cavity and scavenge your organs for my pleasure.”

You cannot get a sound before the second creature is suddenly in front of you, plucking you off the ground with two of its four arms. Beneath the mask it wears, all you see is despair and horror where the eyes should be, “I am the Magician, a fitting title for my craft.” It gives a highly unsettling grin as its mouth stretches back further than it should be able to in order to reveal the huge line of razor sharp teeth, “I could make you disappear a simple snap of my fingers. . .” It hums before simply dropping you—yet you do not hit the ground.

Instead, you are caught by the final creature, looking to see two sets of gleaming teeth—one on the thing's neck and the other on its face—partially morphed into a green glowing pattern like that carved onto a pumpkin—jagged and curling up into a wicked grin. This one is the most unsettling, having so many eyes on its face, all looking at different spots and blinking at times but aligned with the others. All the acid green eyes starting at you for varying intervals, “And I. . .” it chuckles, a green tongue swiping over its lips slowly in anticipation, “I am simply called the Glitch.” It purrs as you try to push its body away from your own—a fruitless endeavor since it has a hold on you.

It is hard to avoid any of them, being about three-fourths the size of the smallest one. You probably could not even take out one of them off they were alone.

“Enough vaiting,” the Doctor growls, growing impatient. It paces behind the Glitch, wings fluttering as they fold close to its body, “Zhose mortals have been too on top of it!” It moves closer, “I **crave** zhe feeling of blood under my nails!” The creature hisses when you attempt to give it a glare—you try to muster up all your courage to stare these creatures in the face. . . Or at least close to the face. You know not to look something directly in the eyes lest you wish to start a fight, and three against one is not in your favor.

“For once I agree,” the Magician coos, beginning a predatory circle around you and the creature holding you. You shudder at the sensation of a claw running down the line of your spine. These creatures are horrifying, the largest one’s gaze paralyzing you in fear, “Make them squirm! Primal fear makes them all the better.”

The Glitch hums, letting you drop to the ground, “Let's play a game—” the other two give unsettling grins at this, making you take a fearful step back, “—you have ten seconds to run. . . After that, spoils go to the one that finds the mortal first.”

“Going to play fair zhis time?” The Doctor snorts, the sound shifting into a laughter with the smug look given from the elder creature, “Zhen I guess I vill have to step up my game.”

They glance to you, a sign that you need to start running now. A gasp escapes you before you turn on your heels and run as fast as your legs can carry you.

Panic fogs your mind, making it difficult to discern the area around—though, there is not exactly any shapes or objects to give you an understanding of the surroundings.

It is just an infinite void of blackness.

You never make it far, everything instantly growing numb. . . Then nothing.

Days pass before your neighbors check on your house. With the living room showing signs of chaos, they figured the worst.

Weeks later, your old house went up for sale. As if you would ever care. There is nothing left to have ownership. Who were you? Nobody knows.

You are completely wiped from existence, even memories of you devoured and taken. Your fate will only be known by the ones who ushered it in and the rumors the continued warnings in hopes to stop others ending up like you.

Not like it can do anything for you.


	8. Not So Ghostly Hauntings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains descriptions of gruesome scenes, child death and eye gore

The light scans over the room, shining on the couch before moving to the window, “This place is hella dusty. How long has it been since somebody lived here?” The carrier of the flashlight looks back to the other two with him. The house is an averaged size home, three bedrooms, two bathrooms with a nice large living room, a dining room connected with the kitchen and a decently sized basement that needs to be finished. It is odd to those without the proper knowledge that such a nice home was left abandoned and off the market for so long. Who would not want a house like this one?

The female of the group rolls her eyes, “It’s been a couple years. The town wants to get this house in shape to be sold again, but there has been problems with haunting stuff.”

He laughs, “Haunting stuff? Like excess dust and spooky sounds?”

“Dust is from the house being locked for years,” a voice answers over their radios—their friend back in the van talking, “The sounds include scratching, crying, weeping, howls, and groans, plus claw marks on the walls and floors leading to the attic, and sightings of something crawling on the floor.”

He shudders at the thought of something crawling on the ground, dragging itself forward with its arms, closer and closer. No thank you, he does not want to experience that. He directs the beam of his flashlight towards the nearby wall, noticing the distinct marks of three lines trailing across the surface, about his own shoulder height. Three claw marks, a sign often of a demonic presence—a mockery of the holy trinity. They could be dealing with a demon.

“There's also rumors of another entity in this home, but it stays in the basement,” the female speaks again, glancing towards the direction of the kitchen—where the doorway to the basement is, “This one is less aggressive but will still attack if provoked.” She glances back to the one with the flashlight, “A worker came in earlier to check the electricity and said he got cut up by some thin wires tied between the shelves down in the basement, but there was no wires there later. He also recalled hearing something like old-timey swing music playing while down there despite no radio or any sort of device that could play music.”

“Two in one, huh? This shouldn't be hard for us, right?” He grins looking at the others, “Come on! Me, Matthew, as our fearless leader, Grant with the EMF and spirit box—” the taller male snorts and slightly rolls his eyes, “—Stacy, the one who keeps her cool while the rest of us are scared shitless, and Alex back in the van to watch over us and keep us safe—"

“You idiots forgot the crucifix in the van by the way,” Alex interrupts the pep talk, their voice calm as ever. Fingers glide over the keys as they set up the system, “Also, Matt, come back and get another camera. Grant has one that will go into one of the locations, but we need another for the other spot.”

Matt gives a nod, “Alright, be there in a moment.” Looking to the others, he starts up the plan, “While I get the camera, Grant, can you set up the camera in the attic and then see if you can get any readings on the EMF or spirit box? That ghost seems to only like it If you are alone. Stacy, scan around the house for anything that could help us get info on these ghosts. I'll go to the basement when I get the camera. That one also doesn't like big groups.”

“Shy guys, huh?” Grant laughs at this glancing towards the attic door—a hatch hanging above the end of the hallway. The attic will not be difficult to get to; they had been given a map of the house, the attic having easy access and a pretty large space—though they are not sure how much stuff the last family kept up in the space however. Everything within the house has not been touched since the door was locked, not even robbers daring to break into the premises after hearing the story of what happened to the family that lived there. So, without the knowledge of what is kept inside, Grant guesses he could have limited room to move around in the attic—and not because of the usual problem he has of being taller than the average man.

“Go get the cam, I'll head up to the attic now then see if I get any response on the spirit box,” He continues, taking a step towards the hallway with the bedrooms , “Hopefully we can figure out some info on these ghosts quickly and figure out how to help them pass onto the afterlife or banish an negative entities.”

“That would be ideal,” Stacy hums her agreement, “I'll head to the bedrooms and see if I could get anything there. If either of you need anything, just radio me.”

With nods to each other, the three go their separate ways: Matt stretching his arms over his head as he heads outside. Grant settles into a causal saunter, pulling out the camera and looping the strap around his neck. Stacy heads to the bedrooms, wanting to check the pictures and items left behind.

Nobody has lived in the house since the accident. The police could not figure out what caused the event to happen to the family: the mother was found hung in the attic with multiple lacerations on her body and her jaw missing. The eldest son was discovered in the freezer, signs of being tortured before cut up and thrown in there. The youngest son's body was left in the master bathroom, the tub overflowing and the water tinted red with the guts spilled into the basin. All three had no eyes left in their skull, forcefully yanked out and done while they were still alive. Yet, the eyes were never found. And the strangest thing was there were no signs of what happened to the father.

Some speculated the father was to blame for the deaths, yet there was no sign of what happened to him, and it did not make sense for him attack them; he did have a problem with drinking and there were arguments between mother and father, but he never had the personality that would make sense of him killing them. Nothing gives any sense to the fact there was not a single hint of what happened to the father.

The Brody family simply died that night, erased from life in a swift moment.

As many religions and traditions believe, such souls killed so suddenly and violently could not pass onto the next life. Odd though, since other investigators say the two spirits sound like adult males, highly unlikely to be any of the other Brody family members. If one is the father, what happened to his body and who is the other ghost?

That is their job, to figure out who these ghosts are, and to see if they can remove them either peacefully or by force. Most likely they will not be able to figure out what happened to Mr. Brody's body, but perhaps they can at least give the spirits peace.

Stacy heads into the master bedroom, clicking on her flashlight. As any other room in the house, the bedroom is a snapshot of the family's life before it went to shite. Sheets are missing from the bed due to the wife being dragged out of bed before taken to the attic—a bit of her blood spilled on the sheets and the rug taken for analysis by the police forensics team. The only evidence of struggles left behind is the marks of nails clawing at the doorway, the mother dragged by her legs out of the room.

She had seen a photograph of the room during the police investigation—sometimes there are perks to her friend being a police officer—that showed some odd writing on the wall. Odd in the way where no matter how much you stare at the words and did everything in your power to remember it, nobody could recall what it said the moment they look away. Her friend even said it looked as if the writing had been flickering and shimmering on the wall. A name they predicted it to be, the name of something.

Interestingly, Alex had been doing some research into such things before they joined the group. They had found other instances of such writing: the first documented one in the office of a doctor that went missing—written in blood—then also at an old, abandoned amusement park. The amusement park's writing was done in an odd teal liquid that glowed. Then, there was at the incident at Halloween where the three victims were found tied up by threads, suspended in the air as their blood pooled below. The writing was on a computer, scratched into the screen.

Any computer that tried to read the hard drive of that one ended up getting a horrible virus that would overheat the system and turn off the fans causing the device to catch on fire. Technology never survived when that word was found on the scene. The only lasting things were the pictures, somehow surviving wipes of hard drives.

Another one recently dug up was from decades ago was an old animation studio left in disarray when something that has been left unrecorded attacked the employees. There was blood everywhere and mangled corpses, but at the time the police did not record what was the possible suspect of the murders—just that it was a homicide. Though, like many of the other cases, that name that slips the minds of everyone was present, the report taking about writing on the wall but no notes on what it said.

Yet another instance of it was left at the house of a man, one who people believed to be either a vigilante or a murderer, where his apartment was left to burn. In the ashes of the scene the writing was there engraved into his discarded phone. This was only a few weeks before the Brody case.

The incident in the Brody house is the most recent appearance of the writing. Alex believes whatever is leaving this message is the connection between all these incidents: six cases of it showing up in total so far. Some sort of entity is the connection between all these, the cause of the horrible accidents. They have been nearly obsessed to figure out what this thing is—what makes it take some while others are simply eviscerated? What makes it choose its victims?

There is no consistency between the appearances, all over the world. It could hardly be considered a coincidence since six instances have come up, all involving some rather horrific murders and somebody going missing. Bodies are never found—a theory coming from this consistency that this entity is a body snatcher, needing a new body every so often to continue its reign of terror.

By Alex’s deduction, this thing is at least centuries old, possibly even older. This means there could be more than just six cases, others could be out there yet to be discovered or during a time there were no records made of them.

A secondary objective to the investigation of the Brody house is to hopefully find some clue of this thing that could have been left behind.

Stacy sighs, walking over to the bed and sits on the edge, glancing to the nightstand to gaze upon a framed picture. Inside the frame is a photograph of the mother and the two children, smiling at the photographer—most likely the father. Such simple times for them before everything went downhill. She frowns, looking away as if the sight was painful, as if she could feel the sorrow felt from the mother when the marriage started to crumble.

“So, what happened here?” The ghost hunter mumbles under her breath, knowing well that she would not get any response. Standing, she turns back to the bed, playing what could be remembered of the report her friend showed.

The mother had been the first victim, torn out of bed—what seemed to be tears in the sheet and on her body created by a kitchen knife—and dragged through the hallway up to the attic. There her jaw and eyes were torn from her body and then hung from the rafters.

It still baffles Stacy how the children did not escape during that time. The master bedroom is the closest to the attic’s entrance, it would give plenty of time for the kids to run out of the house to find help. . . unless something was keeping them there.

The eldest son was next, plucked from the room and dragged into the basement where his eyes were removed and then, while still alive, had his limbs sawed off and shoved into the freezer. Finally, the youngest was taken to the master bathroom to be gutted and left to die as the tub filled with water.

A horrific story to hear, a gruesome scene to come upon. Many of the officers who responded to the call of the neighbors—oddly, nobody heard any noise until later in the night—had to go through therapy to recover from the scene. Many even refused to work on the case and eventually it went cold.

The neighbor to the north had been woken up by what they described as something laughing loudly and then a male screaming in agony. Only then did somebody call the police. Hours had passed since the murders took place, since the father vanished without a trace.

Attention quickly turns, hearing something crash from behind the bathroom door—like somebody had pushed a glass off the countertop. The bright beam of her flashlight shines on the door, peeking through the sliver of opening between the door and the frame. Shards of glass upon the floor reflect fractals of the light, showing it had been pushed farther away from the sink than just a simple loss of balance from being too close to the edge. It is truly as if somebody pushed it off the edge in a fit of frustration or anger.

“Shit. . .” Stacy grimaces. Another sign there is definitely a presence in the house, “Is there somebody in here with me? Give me a sign of you can hear me.”

She does not notice the dip in the other side of the bed, an indent created as if somebody sat down on the plush surface.

“Hey Alex,” Matt greets their tech master as he steps back into the van, ducking down to get in, “You set up into the system?” It is a silly question to ask—of course they have, Alex sets up the system in a matter of minutes.

Rain patters against the van's windows and metal body, a calming rhythmic sound to contrast the tension rising inside the home. An interesting day to go hunting, but they had already told their client that night would be their time to investigate—and they are being paid big for this. The house is large and could bring in a good price if there are no ghosts haunting the premises.

It has been shown that it is difficult to sell a house where gruesome murders took place, but also haunted homes carry the same obstacle. Having both of those variables would make it so few people would want to make an offer even if it is a beautiful home and a good location.

“Stacy has already picked up something,” Alex murmurs, straight to business. They gesture to the tiny section of the screen before enlarging it. The video reveals the broken glass on the ground, being observed by Stacy, “Broken glass as if thrown.”

“Could be a poltergeist then,” Matt thinks aloud, “I'll keep that in mind.” He swipes up the crucifix and the extra camera, “How is Grant?”

The tech master shrugs, “He's not getting anything. No responses from the EMF or spirit box which is weird. . . The attic is supposed to be a hotspot, so not sure if it just doesn't want to talk to him, or it has moved.”

Interesting. Ghosts often are tied to an area, all accounts of encountering one of the ghosts being in the attic. Did it move on, or did it just shift to another room?

“We’ll let him stay in the attic, maybe it just isn't active yet,” the leader vocalizes his thoughts, getting a nod from the other, “I'll head back in and go to the basement.”

As he heads to the back door, Alex reminds him, “Don't forget to keep an eye out in the basement; that electrical worker nearly lost his whole ear because of those wires. Be keen and careful.” He nods in understanding before hopping back out into the rain and straight into the house.

Blue eyes glance back to the screen, watching Stacy turn back towards the master bed, “What the fuck. . .?”

Stacy stops dead in her tracks, hazel eyes widening at the sight. The dip in the bed is there, but for a moment she thought she saw a person. Male, brown hair. For a blink he looked like a normal person, then it flickers to something monstrous. The ghost, but should it not be in the attic or basement?

 _Stacy. . ._ An ethereal voice whispers her name, getting the investigator to shiver.

“Stacy.” This time it is to real, not the voice of one of her teammates. As she tries to look towards the source of the voice it snaps, “No! Don't.” And that she does not move her gaze anymore, “I don't want to hurt you. You. . . You share her name. My Stacy. . .”

From where her gaze rests she can see dark blue sneakers, a physical presence. That's not possible, it takes a great amount of energy for a ghost to physically manifest and this one does not fit the bill to be a demonic entity.

“Why do you come here?” The voice speaks again, the sound of weight shifting on the bed before settling, “Groups always come here, and you are one of them that want to talk to us.” He does not seem happy about the idea, his voice lowering in volume and tone, “Can’t you leave us alone? Let me drown in my sorrow and loss.”

She pauses, taking a tentative step forward despite the other’s warning, “Who are you?” There is risk in pushing questions on this one—he is not in one of the spots that they were given—he is in the master bedroom. It could be a jump but. . .

“Are you Mr. Brody?”

The room grows degrees colder, sending shivers through her body and goosebumps to form on her skin. Not a good sign. It feels as if time has gone to a standstill, that even her breathing failed to make a noise in the emptiness.

The rush of air is the telltale sign of the entity rushing her, the presence strong, “Don't speak that name!” He snaps. In her peripheral the entity’s hands raise—not human but three-clawed hands drenched in blackness, “My name means nothing!”

So, this is Mr. Brody. Chase.

"What happened to you?" She knows it is a bad idea to push entities at times, but with the confirmation, maybe she could get some information on what happened, "Where is your body?"

He does not respond, his breath seeming to shift into a growling noise, a wheeze intermixing as if struggling to breathe.

Stacy remains as calm as she can despite the quickening of her heart rate, “We are here to help you, and the other. We can help you pass on. “

The growl grows inhuman when he finally responds, his voice morphing into an equally inhuman sound, “I cannot pass on. I am not dead, and neither is the other!”

“Not dead? How?” Stacy’s eyes widen, taking a move to look the man in the face—or what was one a man.

Her eyes meet with pale blue hues floating in an abyss of darkness. Streaks crawl down the sickly gray-paled face, eyebrows furrowed as eye contact is made. When she meets its eyes, a blood curdling howl rises from the creature before it lungs forward. She cries out in fear but the sound uselessly echoes in that single room, unheard by others.

None of it is seen as the camera on her person had long glitched out, Alex frivolously working to fix it.

“Hello? Is anyone down here with me?” Matt calls out as his foot connects with the basement floor. The air feels cooler down in this dark place, his flashlight scanning the area for any of those wires spoken about by the electrician.

Sparkles flicker in the air as his flashlight beam traces over the back wall of the basement. Between shelves leading to the exposed brick wall, something as thin as spider webs hangs loosely. The only signal of the threads being there is the light reflecting off the surface. Carefully, Matt moves closer, continuing to scan around for other thin threads.

More and more he notices the intricate weaving of the threads throughout the whole basement; something made the elaborate trap over time, an approach to either protect something or to keep something out. . . or in.

Subtly music echoes into the air, an ethereal harmony with no source, barely heard.

“Shit, how long has this been down here?” Attention trails between all the threads, tracing each one to find a source. Such a task is fruitless, quickly getting lost in the tangled web. Yet, something catches his attention, a flicker of movement in the corner of the ceiling.

His flashlight quickly whips around, shining it to where the movement was seen.

A scream escapes him without a second thought, stepping back with eyes wide open, “What the fuck?!” Hanging from the ceiling—suspended by the very thin wires strewn about the room—is a humanoid shape, contrasting white and deep nearly black colors on its body. Blood trickles from the flesh between the threads, yet the steady drip is not the most startling part.

The music grows louder, crackling in the back of his skull.

No, the worst thing is those eyes. Pure white eyes, glowing brilliantly as they have an unfocused gaze, yet he knows the thing is staring at him. This creature looks human but then again it does not look that way. Four arms spread further, stretching the wires as they cut deeper into the flesh. Dark blood seeps, trickling down some of the threads—making them more noticeable with the crimson shimmer.

For a moment he simply stares back at this creature, afraid any sudden movements will cause it to lunge, “Uhh. . .” Matt blinks, slowly raising his hand to wave at the other, “Hi?” He watches the creature, noticing that is slightly adjusts and tilts its head. Is it confused or something else?

“W-who are you?” Slowly the ghost hunter takes a step forward, only to stop moments before his face meets the deadly wires, “Shit. . .” Attention turns back, eyes widening when the creature is gone from the spot. Bloody wires hang limply from the ceiling, pieces on the floor as if they were suddenly tugged at and cut loose.

“Hello?” he calls out again, turning around to find himself face to face with the creature—once again it is suspended from the ceiling, staring dead into his eyes.

It convulses violently, head twitching side to side as its multiple arms twist and bend in ways bones could not conceive. Then, its attention snaps to Matt. Its mouth opens as if screaming, yet no sound comes out—still, it is enough to scare the life out of the human.

He turns, quickly running back towards the stairway up from the basement, “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Alex!!” A useless yell into the walkie-talkie, only getting static to burst out. . . and something odd like a high-pitched giggle. A single phrase is discernible within the static.

ỳ̴̢̗̎͗o̷̖͙̲͒̈́̈́ṷ̸̠͓͗ ̵̰̓ā̸͚̇̑r̵̦̩̓͜e̵̪̥͂͋ ̶̘́m̷̨̜̅i̸̤̝̓͌͝ñ̶͎̞̹͌ẽ̵̮͚

“Stacy?! Matt?!” Panic is rich in Alex’s voice, their fingers working quickly to try to get an angle from the security cameras already set up in the house. The fact of both not reporting in when they requested for a status update makes the panic worse. Both are on top of responding, so when Grant is the only one to respond it makes them uneasy to say the least.

A momentarily relief washes over them when they get feed from the camera on the back porch—it can see into the house enough to see the area near the basement door.

Though, within a second of seeing movement, hopes are dashed. The screen shows a humanoid figure dragging something up the stairs, watching as the dragged one thrashes, cries muffled as they can barely hear it even with the audio capability of the camera. They lean in closer, pressing fingers against the headset to bring the sound closer to their ears.

“n̶̰͠o̷͎͘ ̴͖͌h̷̨̆o̵̙̕p̶̢̐e̷̳̅.” The two words whisper in their ear, getting them to throw their headset away.

“Fuck.” Did Stacy end up like Matt? Alex scrambles to the screen, pulling the headset up and placing it back over their ears. They need to warn Grant to get out of there, “Grant?! Grant, can you hear me?!” Hands shake, adrenaline pulsing through every artery and vein, “Grant, get out of there, now!”

Suddenly, the screens die, light flickering around them before leaving only darkness behind. They do not dare to turn, feeling long fingers curl around their shoulder.

Hot breath brushes against their neck, hearing whatever is near take in a deep breath. It purrs, the grip becoming painful, “H̷e̷l̴l̸o̷. . .” Something wet brushes over their neck, a cold sensation left from the trail it takes. Another and then another trail of that thing—what Alex desperately hopes is not the tongue of whatever this intruder is. Their breath becomes visible in the rapidly cooling air, trying to lean away from the touch.

It pulls back, static crackling from the headphones as they are forcefully yanked off their head.

Alex cannot scream before another hand presses over their mouth, the other snaking to the jawline—a touch from beneath the chin. It chuckles, “a̷n̵d̵ ̵g̸o̶o̶d̴b̸y̵e̶. . .” in one swift move the neck is snapped.

Their body slumps onto the floor with a _thud_ , eyes watching the now corpse. Blue eyes stare lifelessly into the emptiness, blood oozing out from the tear created from the sheer force of the neck being snapped. An eerie giggle bubbles out, clawed hands reaching down and forcefully tears the head right off the shoulders in a sickening cacophony of sounds

“Fuck. . .” Grant hisses under his breath, shaking the spirit box in an attempt to make it work, “Are you just malfunctioning or is the spirit not up here?” He sighs, glancing towards the exit. Maybe he needs new batteries in the thing, or maybe check the basement. Perhaps this ghost does not like the spirit box.

As he stands up, the sound of something being dragged across the ground below rises as well. “What is that?” He tenses up, noticing the sound is getting closer and closer with each passing second. It is coming up to the attic!

In a moment of panic, Grant dives behind a stack of boxes, peeking out just in time to see what the source of the noise was.

A ghostly creature drags up a body, blood trailing behind as it brings its prize to the center of the attic. The stench of blood is overpowering, wanting to gag as he steals a glance. Guts are exposed, bits torn from the abdominal cavity to drag on the floor behind. She is beyond dead.

Stacy is dead.

Lacerations cover nearly every possible surface on her body, her abdomen taking the front of the violence. What a horrible way to go. . .

The creature mourns, letting out a wail to echo in the attic. It is. . . Sad? The ribbon-like lower body sways in the non-existent wind, its head hangs with the face buried in its hands. Why would it mourn its own kill?

Mumbles slip between the fingers, an inky ooze like tears mixing with thickened blood dripping upon her body. It is sorrowful for this kill. . . Did she remind this entity of the woman who lived her before?

Is demeanor changes suddenly, attention snapping up when another enters, the screams of this one’s victim starting to grow weaker. Matt!

Fear grips the hiding investigator’s heart, disallowing any movement or attempt to save his friend. He could not do anything with two of these things. Even if he is taller and more built than the normal person, these things are far from normal humans themselves.

They cannot be ghosts; ghosts cannot cause so much physical damage. He had heard of demonic spirits creating scratches on somebody’s body or poltergeists throwing objects at people, but never has he heard of a ghost tearing somebody’s guts out or having such a tangible presence. These are somehow living creatures, entities invading their place.

A board creaks beneath Grant’s foot, getting the two creatures to glance over in his direction. Breath is held, making himself as small as a six-foot man could behind a stack of boxes. A gentle set of steps grows closer, knowing that death is stalking nearer.

Before they can get any closer, however, both jump and shrink back at the entrance of yet another creature.

This one is huge, large enough that Grant can see its shoulders and head over the boxes. It is horrifying, so many eyes. He presses closer to the ground; afraid this thing could have already seen him. Why does it need so many eyes?!

Matt tries to struggle, only to get the wires to dig further into his skin. He whimpers in fear when Alex’s headless body is simply tossed next to him.

Eyes turn to look at the creature that had the body, dread glimmering in the hues. How the hell did their investigation go so wrong? Not a single ounce of energy wants to be used to think about how powerful that thing is to tear off a human head, nor where said head is.

Heavy steps thump against the ground, claws scraping against wood floorboards. It seems to pace a bit, growling as it leans down to be more face to face with the other two—both flinching and trying to make themselves look smaller. The apex predator.

It grumbles again, tail lashing as it raises a clawed hand, quickly taking hold of the ghostly one.

A terrified cry slips from it, blackened hands griping at the claws around its throat. Muffled words are spoken, pleas in a voice that does not register to either human; it simply sounds like static to them.

A snap of sharp teeth, dangerously close to the smaller creature’s face. It glares with all eyes focused on the one in its grip—all but one which glances over to see the one human trying to crawl away.

“Going somewhere?” The creature giggles, its voice shifting so quickly into something human sounding. If not for staring right at it, it could be mistaken for a human with that voice.

Carelessly, it tosses the pale creature to the side, steps bringing it closer to the panicking human, “Tsk, tsk. . . Crawling away like a little **worm**.” Its head violently jerks to the side, stomping a foot in front of Matt's path. The discarded creature scrambles back, pressing close to the other.

Warm breath seeps from its mouths, closing distance between mortal and creature, “So fitting for you humans.” It shifts to that blood chilling growl, the humanity in its voice vanishing to be replaced by something deep and grating, “ **Pathetic. Little w-wretch trying to free my pu-puppets.** ”

It brandishes the razor-sharp claws in front of Matt’s face, a taunting act to make the human fear even more. How easily it could just tear through the weak flesh, make a beautiful mess of this one. Too bad it would not have the pleasure of killing all of them.

It chuckles, snatching the mortal by the neck before standing to its full height. Matt struggles, legs uselessly kicking in the air as fingers grip the hand latched to his throat, “ **Playing hero, want to give peace to these little ones**?” The large head tilts as stands of green hair fall to obscure many eyes. Humans with their desires to free others, to play hero and try to protect their kind. Pathetic. None can be saved from it, none can survive it.

“I-it's our job t-to help,” Matt grasps uselessly to find his voice, to get some semblance of confidence to reply to this thing. Every eye on him makes the confidence, any bravery start to shrivel and decay. The very presence of this thing brings dread and fear, the expectation of death. This is not a ghost. A demon could be close, yet it is far beyond that.

No word can describe this creature properly.

“ **Heh. . . Help? So foolish** ,” the creature purrs, a free hand raising to reveal the eye nestled in the palm—staring dead at him. More and more eyes, some seeming to close and completely vanishing as another opens in a new location. Gazes piercing through the soul and very being, paralyzing.

It moves the human closer to its face, two mouths grinning wide as they show off rows of deadly daggers, “ **You do not help my puppets. . . They are mine, now and forever. You can try but you will become another lost soul, like your little friend** ,” It makes a vague gesture towards the bodies of Alex and Stacy, “ **Like the one thinking h-he is so clever behind the boxes.** ”

“Shit!” Grant tries to hold back the word from being screeched out—rather it is uttered, a gasp of air as if it has all been punched out. It has known he has been there the whole time.

No wonder none have succeeded in figuring out what it is, not able to live to tell the tale. Clean, efficient, it leaves no trace it does not wish to leave. A puzzling trail to keep the humans guessing, to perplex and stump all attempts. This thing is powerful on a horrifying level.

“ **Bring that one out. . .** ” The large creature demands, the two flinching as they spring into action, afraid to anger the other for not moving quickly. They both circle around the stack of boxes, one on each side to trap the human.

“Grant, run! Just get out of here!” Matt croaks out the words, hissing in agony as the grip grows tighter around his throat, “Run!” He continues to thrash, his foot connecting with the creature’s abdomen.

It does not even grunt, not even a flicker of movement. Eyes stare half lidded at the human, only giving a slight smirk.

There is no time for either humans to react—Grant grabbed by the two creatures and the powerful jaw of the other shattering Matt’s neck with ease. It does not care to leave these humans alive, just victims to its thirst for carnage.

Grant cries out, trying to struggle against the two creatures in a fruitless endeavor, feet uselessly trying to stop his progression forward. No such luck to escape his fate. He is met with those cruel eyes, staring him down as the monstrous creature gives a sadistic grin.

Not an utter of whispers were given to the ones who hired the group after that night, eventually the team’s van towed and their disappearances going cold.

The house became condemned not too long after that. Nobody dared enter even after the police tap was removed.

A couple bought the property after a few years to completely level the lot and start anew—in hopes starting fresh would lift whatever curse was grounded in the structure. They hired mediums and exorcists to bless the grounds, hoping any trapped souls would be able to pass on with guidance. For a few weeks there was no activity.

Then, the construction became wrought with misfortune. Pieces of material or tools would go missing—a hammer once showing up covered in blood—and even construction workers would be injured, scratched and a few even going missing and never seen again. Beneath the soil they found bones, the only evidence of the lost souls of the lot before the construction began. Eventually, with more and more complications and misfortunes arising, the project was abandoned and the lot left empty.

None had gotten a whisper of the entity's presence after that, relief to some yet gave no closure to their lost friends and loved ones. . . Forever lost.


	9. Time's Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: usual warning of body horror and gore

A breath is taken in, the cold clinging to his nostrils with the intake of air. A rather nippy day, odd since usually the area would be warm even as summer would fade away into fall. Odd, but perhaps not unwanted. The kids enjoy the colder weather, reminds them of back home.

“Daddy!” The young voice gets him to quickly look over, seeing the two kids climb after him—the smaller of the two climbs over a fallen tree, standing atop it, “This place is cool!” This is not the first time they have visited this site, a common area to go to when the kids have their rare visit with their father. Though, every day he tries to take them down a different path to show off the beauty of nature untouched by human kind. Even if he never really excelled in learning, being able to wander through the nearby forest or scale the mountains just a drive away from his home brought joy into his darkening world, small beacons growing brighter every time he could bring his two kids out to enjoy the places he did as a young child.

Originally, they were to visit him every weekend, but over time it grew further and further between the visits, having to fight to even see them every other month. It makes it hard to keep his mind from spiraling down into a pit of despair and a hole of drinking his thoughts away.

Having the kids with him is both a blessing and a curse. He knows they look at him with a judging stare even if they do not mean to; he knows the things their mother tells them about him—she would say nothing good about him when they had their dinners before he would take the kids for a few days and that is most likely kind compared to what is said alternatively when his presence is absent. The kids try not to give him those looks, his eldest son attempting to keep back the pity and the sorrow for his father’s condition; he knew how his father once was like, the times before his mother would talk so poorly of his father but it can be difficult at times. His father is a good man, it is just things have caused him to take a nose dive into the deep end with no security in case he started to drown.

He is drowning and refuses to get help. And this fact hurts Grayson deeply.

At least he does not drink when the two boys are spending the weekend with him, something that makes Grayson happy. If only Trey could see who their father was before life made a major shift to shite. If only Trey could have seen the amazing things their father did as a job until the accident happened.

If only things could go back to the way they were.

“Careful climbing that, Trey,” Grayson warns his little brother, walking along to be there just in case the smaller boy falls.

Their father moves close, picking up the youngest and placing him back on the ground. The kid pouts, getting him to frown, “That tree is old, there is a chance it could break even with your weight—and there's a family of chipmunks that live in there.” Their father knows so much about this forest, able to find where the woodland creatures would live or the perfect place to wait to see the fauns and deer pass by.

“Can we see them?” Trey bounces on his feet, excited as all disappointment vanishes back to childish wonder.

The adult shakes his head, “Not right now, they are probably out getting food. And,” He takes the hand of his youngest to guide him towards the path, “we should head right to the spring, it can get busy very quickly.”

He gives a smile as Trey sticks close, waving for Grayson to follow as they continue their way through the trees. It is peaceful between the trees, enjoying the sounds of nature trilling around them. Though. . . Chase frowns slightly, noticing a lack of noise this trip. Not a single bird sings its song, not the chirp of crickets of the shuffling of leaves as the wind rustles between them. Why is it so quiet? It is a if time has completely stopped. Even the bits of sunlight trickling through the rich branches seems to be suffocated out.

“Dad. . .” Grayson tugs at the sleeve of his father's hoodie, getting his attention. The eldest son points in front of them, an odd glow in the distance, “What's that?” It is an odd ethereal glow, a light blue that does not seem to have a single point of origin. Now that he looks around, he can see the same glow arcing in front of them. Did they take a wrong turn somewhere?

Chase halts in his steps, a feeling of dread lumping in his throat. Something crawls up in the back of his head, a memory he had stuffed away—a memory pushing to the forefront without the alcohol to snuff it out. The glow is familiar to one of the hallucinations he had many times. They are just that through: hallucinations, they cannot be real. Yet, the glow illuminates the fear and panic. If only he could get a drink and forget this all. . .

No, he needs to protect his kids, get them back home, “Let's head home, I think we went a wrong way somewhere.” Both kids take his hands, able to feel Trey tremble. Do they feel uneasy as well? Grayson gives a fearful glance to his father, a clear sign even the elder son is terrified of this sudden change.

They need to leave. Now.

All three jump at the sudden squeal of a small creature—a sound of pure distress. It squeals again before it is cut short with a sickening crunch. It sounded like. . .

“Was that a chipmunk?” Trey whispers, afraid that speaking too loudly will get the attention of whatever caused that horrific sound.

Chase grimaces, squeezing both hands before turning the opposite direction of the sound, back the way they came, “I’m not sure.” He really does not want to think about it, he does not want to know what is the source. Despite what he acts, he knows it was not a good end for the chipmunk involved.

They get a few steps before he curses under his breath. The trees around them quickly shift, the bark instantly crystallizing to that familiar light blue from his drunken hallucinations. No, if this is the same that means it may bring something worse than just crystallized trees. They have to leave and now!

Steps pick up from all three, pressing on in hopes it will bring them closer to escaping this living nightmare. However, every step brings them deeper into the crystal forest. Somehow, no matter how straight and narrow he keeps his pace—back in the direction he knows was the way they came—they end up back at the same spot. Over time every tree becomes crystallized, branches of shimmering light blue jetting up into the sky that has drained of any color and any glimmering star. As the branches get thinner and thinner the crystalline surface becomes more transparent, the edges the only remaining surface with the brilliant color.

Finally, Chase stops, pulling his kids behind a large tree with him. Grayson opens his mouth to say something but he is quickly hushed.

The ground rumbles beneath their feet, the young boys pressing close to their father, burying their faces against his torso. As the shaking ground grows stronger, a large shadow passes over them.

It takes effort for him not to scream out in fear upon seeing the source of the shadow: it is a large creature, semi-humanoid in its shape, yet larger with two pairs of arms and. . . It's torso is odd, cut off from the middle with some rib-like structures surrounding an ethereal orb where its abdomen would be.

It is oddly like a magician with that appearance of a mask and cape. Even so, with the visage matching his memories, it does not bode well.

This thing is one of them from his hallucinations.

How is that possible?!

Chase takes in a breath, holding it and a hand over his mouth as the creature turns to glance in their direction. It hunches down, one pair of arms pressing against the dying ground. Beneath that mask is pure blackness, the absence of eyes yet there is still a gaze scanning the area. Can it sense them?

It is grinning as it looks around, an unnatural smile to expose rows of teeth longer than it should be. It knows they are near, there is no way it cannot know. This thing is too clever, too powerful.

“Chase Brody. . .” The creature coos out despite that grin never faltering, repeating in a sing-song voice, “Chase Brody~”

“How. . .” Grayson chokes out his words, “how does it know your name?” Hazel eyes glance up to his father, watching the face never pull away from staring at the creature. How does this thing know his father? Such a creature should not exist! If it has existed for so long, what does it do to survive and why have they never encountered it the many times they would go through here?

What is it?

“Chase. . . It wants you. . . hide,” it purrs, moving one arm back so only the hand presses against the earth beneath—the appendage spattered with bits of crimson. When it finally opens its mouth a horrific cry of agony bursts forth, loud and painful. It slams its head against the ground, two hands griping what seems to be brown hair. It thrashes about, arcing its back as hands tear chunks of grass out from the firm dirt beneath. It seems to be in pain, the cry shaking the trees and causing the humans to cover their ears from the sheer volume. The pain sounds like a growl mixing with a scream; a deep resonate noise the grows louder than what could be possible for such a pitch.

Did it try to warn him? Why would it try to warn him?

In all his drunken hallucinations this creature would be one of three that would appear, this one enjoying to toy with his pysche and make him squirm until his mind shattered. Though, it never physically harmed him, it has gotten close to biting his head off before the hallucination would vanish.

This cannot be real.

The creature snaps back into focus, slamming all four fits into the ground—getting the humans to jump and the remaining woodland creatures nearby to run scrambling in fear. If they keep quiet long enough, maybe they can make it out unnoticed.

It hisses, grabbing hold of one of the fleeing squirrels in a hand. It brings the squirming animal up to its face, observing as it hangs by the tail and scraps at the empty air with its little feet. Such a contrast between the delicate squirrel and the lumbering magician creature. Perhaps this creature could be a marvel to gaze upon if not for the fact its voice was pure icicles through the chest—deceptively smooth yet has an edge like a knife poised to slice through flesh.

Chase quickly covers both his kids' faces, unable to look away himself as the creature bites of the head of the poor squirrel. It huffs, tossing the body carelessly away, landing nearby Chase's feet.

“Fuck. . .” Of course it had to go like that.

In seconds he regrets uttering the single word, the sound enough that he knows it would have heard. He just revealed himself.

His eyes widen when he is met face to face with the creature, its head dangerously close to his. Empty eye holes on the mask simply linger in front of him, voids that seem to only cry out agony and despair.

Silence lingers, his eyes trailing to notice the hands resting against the ground. It looks so cat-like in this position, its back sloping up as its butt is up in the air. Like a cat ready to pounce.

“Chase.” The voice sounds so human up close, as if it is not coming from a large horrific creature. It moves slightly, head tilting and its body shifting side to side, “You don't remember, do you?”

“What?” Blue eyes widen.

It snorts, “Drown in the alcohol, forget your sorrows. . . Forget what you saw and what you heard. It draws closer.” The creature itself moves closer, no warmth from its body—just a neutral temperature as if it does not exist, “Submit. You've been playing the game far too poorly. It is coming time to collect.” The only warmth that rises from it is the exhaled breaths that come with the words spoken.

Instantly that grin returns, lifting one hand to reveal it swiped away Trey. How—he looks from his side to where Trey was and back to the held child.

“Trey!” He tries to move, only to be stopped by the creature’s head being in the way, “Stop it! Leave them out of this! If you want me, just take me! Please!” It is impossible to ignore the wave of emotions and the tears streaking down his face. He cannot even feel Grayson pressed against his side. Is the eldest child even there?

His son seems to limply hang there, uncaring about his predicament. . . His eyes are pure black, expressionless.

“ _ **Pay the price of your own or I ~~t~~ will collect the equivalent**_.”

He jerks awake before the creature can tear into Trey, sweat clinging to his skin and dampening the sheets that were nestled close to his neck. A dream? They are talking to him in his dreams now. . . Yet, that felt so real, the crawling fear still lingering in the back of his mind. It was more than just a dream, a warning more like it.

Blue eyes lazily turn towards the alarm clock, noting that it is a few minutes before 6 A.M. There is no chance he can get back to sleep after that. Today is going to be long, especially since it will be the day they have the dinner and the kids will be staying with him over the weekend.

Actually—Chase glances to the calendar on the wall adjacent to the one his bed is on—they will be staying for a whole month. Stacy is going out of the country for whatever reason she did not tell him, so reluctantly she suggested Chase watches the kids. Of course, the kids will be told to call her if something happens, wanting texts and information just for more fodder or an excuse to take them away from their father forever. It hurts to think she wants to tear the family so far apart and remove him completely from their lives.

Whatever happened to what they once had? What happened to their love and affection for each other? When did it go so sour? He cannot remember that moment, but in all fairness, he cannot remember a lot after heavy drinking sessions—the whole purpose of such a thing. The alcohol has numbed out so much and erased moments he would rather never remember again, but it has also taken times he wished he could remember; it has taken the good times with him and Stacy, even the day Trey was born.

Letting out a sigh heavy with distaste and reluctance, he throws the covers off his body. Legs are heaved from lounging on the bed to hanging off the sides. Arms stretch over his head as a large yawn escapes him, banishing away the lingering sleep wanting to lull him back into its embrace. He needs to prep his home for his month-long guests.

The whole day is spent cleaning up his apartment of discarded alcohol bottles and adjusting the guest room to house both kids. It was a daunting task beforehand that he would procrastinate about—shoving the bottles away into the closet of his room, knowing the kids would not look in there with the few days they would be there. However, with them being there for a month, he does not doubt they will get curious and start exploring around and finding the stash of old bottles, and that would not be ideal.

Chase pauses in his cleaning, noting a strange bottle he does not recognize. The label has been torn off to only leave the deep green glass. Its shape is odd, like a cat sitting with its tail curled around its paws. Maybe that is why the contents have not been drank, since he does not know where it came from. When did he pick this up? He has never seen a brand like this before. . .

He shrugs it off, placing the bottle into his closet before going to clean the other rooms. As he heads into the kitchen, a note is made that one of his knives is missing from the block—an empty spot so easily noticed with all the other slots filled. Why is one of his knives missing. . .? Maybe his memory is just failing him; maybe he lost that knife a while ago.

It would not be the first time.

Finally, an hour before the time for dinner, the apartment is cleaned. It is not the most amazing job, but at least the place is acceptable for housing two kids

It is a quick shower and getting dressed in a nice t-shirt and jeans—plus wearing his signature gray and pale red hat—and then out the door with reluctance.

As he puts on his hat, his vision is blocked momentarily—long enough for him to accidentally bump into somebody else.

Chase jumps, eyes widening as he is met with blue eyes staring at him, “Sorry! I didn’t see you there—” He stops dead in his words, his voice failing upon seeing this man’s visage.

He looks too familiar. . . The mesmerizing eyes stare through him, a frigid gaze that reminds the father of the dreams and hallucinations. Even if this man looks more human there are still parallels to that monster. . . the long hair partially tied up in a bun while the rest drapes across the side of his face. The only thing missing is the mask covering its face and the blackness instead of eyes.

This man studies him for a moment before giving a kind smile, “It’s alright my friend, you seem you have important places to go that are occupying your mind.” He is too kind to be that creature. . .

Chase gives a laugh, more nervous than what he would want to have shown, before itching at the back of his neck, “Yeah, gotta get to dinner. Again, so sorry about that.” He gives a bow of his head before hustling to his car.

Behind him, the man watches, giving a sly smirk, “Enjoy your dinner, Chase.”

When the father glances back, the stranger is gone, vanished into thin air. He had to be there. . . One cannot bump into something that is not there! He could be going mad from the stress. Shaking his head, Chase pulls out into the street and down to the diner.

* * *

Every inch of him wants to turn around and not go inside as he sits in the parking lot. Stacy has not arrived yet, her car not in the lot a sure sign of that conclusion. It would be easy to turn the car back on and head home. It would be easy to make up an excuse how he could not be there and could not take the kids for the month. Stacy's parents could easily look after the kids.

Yet, that would just give her fuel to take the kids away for good. He cannot stand the thought of that, that he would never see his kids again. No, he could not live like that. A deep breath is taken in, stealing a glance into his rear-view mirror. The clouds are darkening quickly as a rainstorm is due to arrive later that evening.

He adjusts the mirror, squinting as he thought he saw another familiar figure. The man looked almost like the worst creature in his hallucinations. . . not the towering beast it was but a humanoid version. No. . . he cannot be seeing the creatures hiding amongst humans, they are just hallucinations!

This cannot be coincidence however, seeing two of them in one day just after having a nightmare. Is this some sort of sign that these things exist? But monsters are just stories to tell children to cease misbehaving actions; monsters do not actually exist!

Every moment of today has made him doubt more and more he has any sanity left or maybe he is in a coma.

A sudden knock on his car window gets Chase to nearly jump out of his skin—hitting his head against the top of the car. With a breath to calm himself and a hand rubbing the afflicted spot, he turns to find Stacy leaning down slightly to look it the window at him, “Are you going to come in?” Behind her Trey gives a fast and joyfully wave to his father. Grayson gives a wave as well, but more of just lifting his hand as a gesture of ‘sup.’

Hopefully they have not been waiting for long.

Slipping out of his car, Chase puts on his best smile to act as if nothing is wrong and he is not doubting the reality surrounding him is in fact reality, “Yeah,” he gives a quick hug to both kids before heading towards the diner, “I'll be paying tonight.”

“What?” The confusion in Stacy’s voice hurts him—why should she be surprised he has money? The last time they had this diner—which was a few months ago—Chase barely had enough money to pay his rent. Now, he has gotten a decently well-paying job with a bit of extra cash to spend.

“Yup, got a new job a few weeks ago.” The faux smile continues to shove down other emotions swimming in his head. He holds the door open for the three to enter the small diner, following a few paces behind, “I am working at a doctor’s office with keeping records clean and organized, plus working with taking in patients.” It is not his favorite thing to be doing—he would much rather be making videos and creating amazing content, but he needs to provide for his kids. Things must be shifted around to help with his children; even if he does not get as much time with them as he wants, that does not mean he should not contribute to their education and living. This is a realization that has struck him in his times of reflecting on being a father.

The four of them sit at the table, silence lingering as the waitress hands them menus—two regular and two kids menus. They speak up after their orders are taken, small talk made to get things started before taking about Chase's new job.

It is nothing impressive, but at least it brings in enough money to be able to stay in his apartment. Still it does not satisfy him like making those videos did; the job gives him that trapped feeling, as if the walls were the sides of his coffin, nails driven in each day he suffers. He will not mention this lack of satisfaction. No, that would be detrimental to what is starting to be built. At least the doctor is kind and helpful, giving him advice on how to take care of himself and for working with his alcoholism. Perhaps he could call the doctor a friend.

Chase stands, bowing his head in apologies, “I'll be right back, need to use the restroom.” It gives a small spark of hope as Stacy smiles and nods in understanding. He gives a smile to Grayson and Trey before heading to the bathroom.

The bathroom is empty, unsurprising since there is only an old couple in the diner beside the four of them. That means a moment of silence as he goes to the bathroom and begins to wash his hands, “Things are going well. . . Maybe they will pick up.”

“ _Are you sure about that_?” The unfamiliar voice gets him to jump, whipping around to see if somebody entered the bathroom without him noticing. . . Yet, nobody is there, “ _Are you so desperate to think that she will come back, that you can have what you had before_?”

The mirror shimmers, the reflection warping and twisting as light seems to vanish from that world. When Chase looks back, he is met with something besides his own reflection. That man he had thought he had seen before going inside, yet his form keeps twisting and breaking.

“ _Poor Brody, you try so hard but can't let go of her_.” The reflection grins to counter the frown forming on the father's face, “ _Blind to those who have taken an interest in you~ giving into your despair. Too desperate to realize how toxic that bitch really is._ ” That voice is not completely unfamiliar. No, it is another voice from his hallucinations. How. . . How is this happening so suddenly? Why now?

“What do you want from me?” Chase whispers, blue eyes meeting with the two-toned eyes of blue and green.

“ _In denial, aren’t we? Or have you forgotten all we say to you_?” It purrs, head shaking slightly, “ _You should remember. . . every warning I give you. . ._ ” Its eyes narrow, a dangerous sneer spreading across its face, “ _You lose time for every second you cannot let go of that bitch_.”

“I don’t even know what you are!” The human snaps back, slamming his fist against the porcelain base of the sink, the water continuing to flow into the sink, “What the fuck do you want with me?!”

The reflection simply giggles, its form distorting further as if on a broken screen.

“ _Tick tock Brody, your time is running out. Let go, and you won't drag them down into the abyss with you. . . Can you let go_?” The figure suddenly changes into the creature with hundreds of acidic eyes staring him down, “ _I will be kind and give you one month. Once it's the last day of your dear children visiting. . ._ ” It laughs again, moving forward as clawed hands and head push past the glass barrier. It is huge, the wide grins getting his fear to pique, “ _Your time is up, and you are **mine**_. _Of course, that does not include the seconds that decay away if you keep that pitiful hope she will take you back._ ” A shrug is given, “ _But that's up to you if you want the whole month to say goodbye to your offspring or not."_

It moves closer, one clawed hand pressed against Chase’s hand upon the sink base while the other raises to expose the eye in the palm. The eye has the same acidic green iris in a sea of blackness, a deeper tone than the abyssal skin of the creature, that stares at the human. The stare is paralyzing, making Chase not move an inch despite how close the thing is to him, no matter how much his brain screams that he needs to get away. It examines him up close—the first time he has been this close to the monstrous creature of his nightmares. There is an oddly cold breath slipping from its mouths—contrasting greatly to the large trickster and the other unidentified creature which always had warm breaths—and its voice sounding as if coming from a broken radio that would glitch every-so-often in the middle of words with layers of voices speaking just milliseconds behind the first and flipping in pitch.

“ _No matter where you go. . . I will find you_.”

With that, it suddenly vanishes, taking with it the scream wanting to slip from Chase’s throat. His nightmares keep coming to life, and it feels too real to be a hallucination.

He has a month before everything is over. . .? The mirror shows no sign of something passing through it, not even a smudge. The only hint of it being there was the bit of odd black muck on the hand that connected with the creature’s hand. The muck feels cold against his skin, sapping away warmth. He quickly rewashes his hands.

For a moment he lingers on the thought, raking his mind for something that could explain these hallucinations becoming so real. The doctor he works for said that such things are not part of his recovery process with alcohol, but there must be something causing this! What does it mean by letting it go? What does he need to let go of to not drag others into some promised hell he will suffer through? It is all too much to think about right now.

Sighing, he finishes drying his hands and returns to the dining area just in time for the food.

The remaining evening goes smoothly, a casual conversation between taking bites out of their food and then a slow goodbye with a promise the kids would be dropped off by the afternoon. It shocks Chase when Stacy gives him a kiss on the cheek before getting into to car. She even waves before she drives off.

Chase gives a legit smile, brushing back a few strands of brown hair before placing his hat back upon his head. Maybe things really are looking up for him.

Before he can turn, a hand presses over his mouth from behind, the other arm going around his waist to hold him in place.

Warm breath brushes against his ear as the person speaks, “It spoke to you. . . Didn't it?” No. . . That same voice from his nightmares, the trickster! “You have what you must do, but can you accomplish it in time?” Nails dig against his face, pressing painfully into the skin, “Heed the warning, young father, lest you wish for more lives to end. . . Remember what I told you last night? It is getting time to collect; to pay your own or the equivalent is your choice when the time comes due.”

The thing moves its hand down, enough to give room for Chase to talk, “You can't be fucking real! How the hell do you know this shit?!”

It chuckles, an oddly human hand—nothing like the limbs on the creature he could vividly remember that the voice belongs to—rises up to brush against his cheek, “We are not hallucinations, dear Brody. I am another, just like you once were. . . A mortal at one point chosen by the deity to become immortal. I have seen so much, so many fall into its claws and so many fail to join us.” The grip moves, forcing Chase to turn around and face the intruder of his personal space.

The man from earlier that day?! It is not possible he could have followed him all this way, not without prior knowledge or. . . or this man is the manifestation of that monstrous trickster.

Fingers return their touch, brushing the back of knuckles in an unsettlingly fond motion, cold teal eyes studying him, “I wonder if you will successfully submit and become one of us. So many questions that time will only tell,” the man muses, pulling away suddenly as he places a faux smile on his visage, “Dear Brody, I will be seeing you much more in the future. . . Call me an. . . observer for this time. It **always watches** —” as the words are spoken the man's eyes turn a haunting green, his head and hands twitching violently before it disappears as if it never happened, “—but requires eyes to see. Your progress greatly interests us all. . . Especially the three of us.”

With not another word, the man steps away and heads out to the darkened streets. Chase watches as he vanishes behind a building, grimacing not a second later, “Fuck.” The three of them. . . The three monsters from those hallucinations—or would it be more appropriate to call them dreams or visions? Alas, those too see things that are not meant to be real and he has never really believed in the supernatural before.

Maybe he will start believing it now if those other two creatures all have human disguises like the trickster.

Fatigue tugs at his mind, pulling him away from the troubling thoughts. There will be plenty of time at home to dwell on them and try to figure out the confusing messages he has been given before the kids would be coming over.

As he gets home from an uneventful drive, blue eyes notice a small letter left at his apartment door, an odd deep blue envelope with bright teal accents. The note is plucked up before he enters his home, throwing his jacket atop the nearby bench and tearing into the letter.

The writing is fancy, written in beautiful cursive that takes him time to read—who even knows how to read cursive anymore?

_A small reminder, Mr. Brody: do not try to run away, do not try to hide. It sees all and we will find you no matter how far you go. Don't risk it all, it would be shameful to go in such a way you would be cursed with for the coward's way out. Do one last good thing and let go of it._

He is too tired to try to figure out what is being hinted at within this letter. Yes, the thought of running away had crossed his mind. It would be a little difficult to simply uproot himself and move far away, but so many things keep him planted firmly where he is now—namely his children. He cannot leave them, that would be the last straw to say he has given up, and he is far from that point.

Shoes are kicked off and clothing is quickly changed into his pajamas. In the morning he would work on figuring out everything. . .

* * *

Arms stretch over his head, stepping out of his bedroom and shuffling towards the bathroom a door down from where he emerged. The morning air is cool, the clock on his phone saying it is a few minutes past six AM. At least he does not have to get ready for work today for it is Saturday.

He gets to the bathroom doorway before pausing, noticing movement in the living room that darts into the kitchen. It takes his mind a moment to register what is going on, that there should not be another inside his apartment at this time.

An intruder!

Chase quickly and quietly returns to his room, plucking up his gun and going back down the hallway. Careful steps are taken to remain quiet, to sneak into the main room and catch the intruder off guard. Once close, he jumps out, pointing his gun in the direction he saw the figure venture to.

Nothing.

The gun is raised into an idle position, both hands holding the silver weapon. Blue eyes scan the kitchen area as well as the front hallway. There is no sign of where the figure went.

“Don't you know it is dangerous to carry one of those. . .” The calm voice still makes him jump, whipping around to point the weapon at the man sitting in the large armchair. It again: the trickster.

The disguised creature grimaces at this, staring at the gun, “You could hurt somebody with that.”

Chase returns the grimace with equal strength, “That's the point.” He only lowers it since he knows this being has never physically harmed him in the past—however he will not completely let down his guard, “How the fuck did you get in here? I didn't invite you in!”

A scoff, “I may be a supernatural, humanoid entity, but I am not a vampire; I do not require permission to come into your mortal homes.” It shifts one leg to cross over the other, a hand brushing through long brown hair, “I am a magician of old aside from an immortal entity, I go where I please.” It settles back in the chair, resting an elbow against the arm and its head propped on a hand.

“I could have blown your head off!” Chase snaps.

“Highly unlikely,” the entity seems so nonchalant about the idea of its own death. It chuckles upon feeling the confusion, “I do not die. Perhaps I will vanish for a few days, but _It_ will not let me die so easily. I still have much to pay.”

 _It_? Does this entity mean one of the other two of his nightmares? So, one of them is the leader, the one in charge, “What do you mean you have much to pay?”

“Dear Brody, we are **not** here to discuss my debts or even myself. Who or what I am, what I am owed and what I owe are mine alone. If it does not involve you, it is not business you shall stick your nose into lest you want to become a lost soul in my collection.” Teal eyes glimmer with mischief amidst the anger, “I do have permission to. . . assimilate you if you do not play nicely.” The word ‘assimilate’ brings a not nice feeling up to lump in the human’s throat.

It moves slightly, leaning forward in the chair as eyes remain on the human. Arms move to rest on its thighs, lacing fingers together, “I am here to be your observer—if you recall our conversation from last night—and to perhaps prod you in the correct direction.”

If it is going to be around, then he might as well figure some things out, “What the hell am I going to tell my kids when it comes to you? Do you even have a name?”

Merely a snort is given at first, the creature in the guise of a man smirking, “Ah yes, the need for an explanation. . .” it hums, going through a few ideas, “Just tell the little Brodys I am a neighbor that you have become good friends with.”

A pause.

“And what is your name?”

This seems to irritate the entity, teal hues flickering a crimson red momentarily before calming down. It takes in a breath to steady itself, “I do not have a name. You may suggest one, but I must approve of it.”

This entity is high maintenance. . .

Chase thinks for a moment, “How about Harry?”

“Ugh, you insult me comparing my ancient art to that pathetic mortal excuse of a magical world.” It hisses at this, “Try again.”

“Martin?”

Another scoff, “Going to call me your uncle and wonder if I grow antenna out of the back of my head? Fuck off.” That is a resounding no.

Chase huffs, glaring daggers at the entity taking over his chair, “Listen! I'm not great with names! My kids were named after my grandfather and Stacy’s grandfather. I don't do good with coming up with names on the fly. How the hell can you not have a name?”

In a flash the entity is upon him, the familiar shape of the monster becoming more apparent as its anger grows, “Do you listen, gobshite? I said no personal information about me. Keep asking and I'll replace your tongue with a cobra!” Hints of red start trailing into the teal hair, the bright color starting to be consumed by the crimson red in its eyes. Its body also seems to be changing shape, growing larger as hints of the monstrous form start flickering as an overlay against the human appearance.

It breathes out, stepping back and smoothing out the vest, its facade returning to the human guise, “It does not matter. My name is lost and that is all you will know.” As it turns, the frown is hidden, the being twitching slightly as memories try to poke into its thoughts—memories long forgotten and thought to be erased.

Suddenly the body tenses up, eyes widening as the red vanishes completely from the long locks of hair. Chase frowns at this, exhaling a breath before he notices he can see it. What is. . .

“Fuck.” The entity curses, its head snapping to the side so quickly it causes the human to flinch thinking its neck just snapped, “I do not forget. . .” It glances over to Chase—a hint of green in its eyes—before huffing, “I will return.” And then it vanishes as if it had never been there.

Even in its absence the chill in the air remains.

Chase waits a few minutes to see if the creature would return, but when he is only met with stillness it is a sure sign it will not come back. He sighs, shaking his head, “That was fucking weird. . .” With that interruption out of the way, it is back to taking his morning shower to get ready for the day of a bit more cleaning then picking up the kids.

* * *

The sound of voices draws him out of his nap, rubbing a hand over his eyes and blinking slowly. Both kids had been left to play a few games after they had finished up the remaining homework. Chase himself had only been asleep for about thirty minutes before being awoken by the sounds.

He easily recognizes the two voices of his kids, Trey talking excitedly and barely giving a chance for anyone else to speak. Their voices are muffled by the walls, not allowing Chase to hear what is being said. . . though, the tone of the third voice is one he has gotten used to hearing. The trickster entity.

Over the first week of the kids being in the house, somehow the trickster entity had achieved avoiding any contact with the kids—preferring to be around Chase and continuing to guide him in the right direction without blatantly pointing the correct path out. Quickly it had been found out the entity, which has only seemed to respond to the title “The Magician”, is not too fond of children.

When Chase mentioned his kids were younger than most, the Magician had gotten annoyed. Children, in its opinion, are ignorant and cannot see the ‘true beauty behind the mystery of the world and such arts as magic.’ It also seems that it is irritated by children because of past experiences it will not speak of, just uttering that they have been nuisances for it in the past. Another point to add to the list of things he does not know about his mysterious new. . . well, he is not sure he can call this entity a friend. In fact, he is not even sure what he could call the entity aside from not knowing its name. It is just an ‘entity’ that goes by the nickname of The Magician.

As the father gets up, he saunters towards the hallways, stretching his arms over his head as a large yawn escapes. If his kids are interacting with the trickster, it seems to be going good with all talking and the lack of sounds attributed to fighting such a screams or the impact of something against flesh. At least that gives him a spark of hope that events will go smoothly over the next few weeks.

Still. . . The Magician is also a constant living reminder of the omen he was given at the beginning: one month. In three weeks his life will completely change. With the creepy hints and vague ideas of what could be done by the head nightmarish entity, he knows for sure it will not be pretty and relaxing.

Knowing this makes it hard for him to keep on track of being sober. Having the kids over meant no drinking, even if the alcohol could be an escape from the hell of reality coming down upon him.

“Dad!” Trey cries out excitedly before jumping off the couch—ignorant to the grimace from their guest. The young boy runs over and hugs onto Chase’s leg, “Mr. Magician came over to play!” Bright blue eyes sparkle with joy, holding up the controller, currently unplugged with Grayson saving the console from taking a dive to the floor as the cord was forcefully pulled out.

“So I see,” Chase puts on a faux smile to keep up the idea that he is friends with this other man, I wouldn't have taken a nap if I knew you were coming over—” In a small mischievous streak, he decided to jab and pick a random name to call the trickster, “—Marvin.”

“You should know I like to. . .” The entity starts before the words fail. Teal eyes flicker in brightness, seeming to lose its grip on reality and diving into its own mind. He has expected a grimace or a snarl out of the entity—maybe a bit of sass—not this. It frowns, furrowed eyebrows as it cannot comprehend its own feelings.

“You. . . You okay?” Chase walks over to the couch, his steps uneven a he drags Trey along with him. A glance at the entity's face gives him a flicker of concern: that name seems to have resonated with it, a spark of something in those teal eyes. . . Something almost human.

“Hey, Grayson, Trey—” He rushes to get the kids' attention, noticing the time being close to dinner, “How ‘bout the two of you go do a bit of clean up in your room and decide on dinner.” There is a groan from Trey but Grayson nods and drags his little brother to the back hallway that leads to their bedroom.

Even if Grayson is just beginning to be teen, he still can be a lifesaver for the inexperienced father. The boys have a close bond with each other, something they will need later on.

Blue hues return to focusing on the entity of a man, noticing there are a few twitches to its form, “Did I strike a nerve or something, dude?” He reaches out subconsciously before having to stop himself, unsure if it would be a good idea to touch the entity when it is in such a state as this.

The growl given is a good indication he would have lost his hand for touching it, “Nothing is wrong.” As if it never happened, the trickster is back to normal, introducing a new venomous glare. It stands, grabbing Chase by the collar of his shirt before pulling him in close.

Its voice becomes the layered tone the father has come to fear, the two voices dissonant from one another, echoing just a few milliseconds apart, “Use that name again and I will ensure nothing is left for _It_ to create a new nightmare out of. . . I will be the one to end you slowly and painfully. “ It sneers to show off the dagger-like teeth. A bit later he is shoved away and it turns to leave, “Cherish your time. You have three weeks.”

It gives a half-assed wave before walking out the front door—not even a dramatic exit, just leaving like a normal person would.

The trickster looks to its own hands, the frown creasing its lips as it grows deeper, “Was. . . That my name?” It shakes its head, brushing off the idea. The past is in the past; even if that was its name, that is the name of the long-dead mortal. It needs no name besides the title. . . At least, this is what it will tell itself.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?" The father questions as he looks over to the entity. Trey and Grayson are currently at school, a few more hours before Chase would have to pick them up.

The Magician grimaces, arms crossed over its chest, "What now?" The irritation in its voice is so easy to detect. Why does it have to be so angry and grumpy all the time? Well, perhaps it is better when it is grumpy and angry than sassy and being an arsehole.

Still, he will ask the question, "I found a bottle the day you appeared in my dream. . . one that is shaped like a cat and is a bit of a darker teal than your hair. I feel like it's a crazy idea but do you have any idea what that could be?"

It simply stares at him for a moment, studying before letting out a snort, "Why would I know about that?" Something about its tone makes him unconvinced it does not know anything. It has that glimmer in its eyes that a cat gets when it is about to knock something off the table. It knows what that bottle is but will not share. One day maybe he will learn what is in it.

"Never mind asshole."

* * *

“I don't care!” Chase grimaces, giving a small, subtle gesture to bring attention to the kids who are watching the two of them, “You need to have somebody look at that!”

The paternal instincts kicked in the moment his frequent guest entered his apartment with a slew of cuts and lacerations on its body. As if its appearance does not bring up the kids' suspicion—or more curiosity from Trey rather that suspicion—but the entity coming in casually with such damage to its body makes that worse.

“Come on!” The father picks up his keys, a stern look as if he was trying to get the kids to do something, a look met with a glare from the entity, “I’m not going to let you stand there and bleed out!” Without thinking he grabs hold of the trickster's arm—regretting it instantly when the other hisses in pain, more of the fact the hiss sounds so inhuman. Despite this, he guides it to his car, sighing when both kids follow as well and jump into the back seats.

Even if the entity dislikes children, Trey and Grayson have quite enjoyed the presence of it. Though, not the greatest when Trey had asked Chase if the entity was his new boyfriend. Unfortunately, as well, the kids have gotten to calling it “Marvin" despite all protests from the being itself. Did not make the reactions of both when the youngest Brody asked that question any less dynamic—Chase having to quickly correct through coughing as he inhaled part of his drink and the Magician staring confused as hell with its body twitching slightly.

Maybe it looks handsome in its human guise, but there is no avoiding the fact it is a doomsday sign of his own end. Such a fact like that ruins any chance of feelings besides dread and unease.

Teal eyes narrow to thinner slits as the car starts up, its voice soft enough that the kids cannot hear it over their own conversion, “And what do you expect to get from this? You are going to take me to what, some human doctor in hopes they can deal with my damage? Brody, I am **not human** , which means my body is not human. Some pitiful human doctor will be able to do nothing. A normal human would be deceased with this damage done to their vessel.”

“Body,” Chase corrects.

The Magician gives him a perplexed stare, “Excuse you?”

“It is ‘excuse me'—” He ignores the stare shifting into the ever familiar glare, “—and its called a body not a ‘vessel'.” Slowly this feels more and more like taking care of a child rather than an adult, but if this thing is an ancient being perhaps it is not caught up on modern things, or has ever cared to do so.

“But relax bro,” Chase attempts to reassure the trickster, giving a brief glance as he drives, “The doctor’s office I work at is a good disguise; we’ll go there and pretend he's in and you can do whatever to heal the wounds. . . But you will need to bandage it to make it convincing.”

It growls under its breath, “Pathetic mortals, you are such trivial levels of annoying with your weak bodies and need to things to fit your own reality. **You** are the one who needs the façade to remain for your offspring. I am an observer not a part of this charade of a happy life!” If it could, it would simply leave this, yet there is an invisible tether binding it to this one until _It_ comes to collect. Infuriating.

“I had better get something out of this endeavor. . .” Its shoulders deflate as it slumps into the chair, “This mortal doctor had better not be present. “ It does not wish to deal with more mortals than what it must. It despises mortals.

Chase gives a reassuring smile as he turns, “I promise he won't be. I take care of his schedule and he's not in this evening.”

Though, he bites the inside of his mouth when a familiar car sits in the lot. Is he in on a weekend day? That is not possible. Perhaps it is one of the days he took a ride home with somebody else and left his car there over the weekend. The doctor had a large event to go to today, one he should not miss.

His car pulls into a parking spot close to the entrance, hopping out and getting the door for the entity—received by a growing scowl. His attention moves to his kids as he helps the Magician out of the car, “Come on, kiddos, you come in and stay in the lobby area as we go back.” The two follow inside, Trey bouncing excitedly to finally see where his father works.

Once inside, Chase guides the entity to the back as the kids remain in the waiting room, heading towards one of the exam rooms, “In here.” It reluctantly follows, glaring at every inch of the building as if it had done something to insult its honor. He directs the Magician into the room, taking a note that he might have seen a light on in the back room, “Alright, we will need to spend a bit of time to make it believable that your wounds were cleaned and—” He stops in his words, inhaling faster than what he wanted upon seeing the Magician taking off the dress shirt to reveal a bare chest.

Shit. Chase had always thought he had troubles in his past relationships with doubting his sexuality of being heterosexual, but seeing the entity’s build—even if it is just a guise—makes the realization he’s bi even more solidified than before. His face reddens with embarrassment, looking away when he realizes he has been staring longer than he should.

To ignore the awkward air surrounding, he opens his mouth to speak on the subject he had been on, but another voice interrupts before a sound can be made.

“Chase? Vhy are you here? Ve are not officially open. . . Today. . .” Chase whips around—seeing the Magician turn slightly to stare at the source, “Who is zhis?”

The entity grimaces, baring its teeth as they grow sharp, “ **You**. . .” It huffs, waving its hands as teal magic surrounds itself to slowly mend the lacerations, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Doc?” Chase frowns, looking to his employer, “Do. . . You know him?”

The Magician snorts, “Are you that blind?” It rolls its eyes at both the human and the doctor, “I can see that disguise from kilometers away. The Doctor playing doctor, how cliché!” A dramatic flip of its hand and a flare of brown hair brushed back off its shoulder, “Of course, not all have the flare for creativity.”

In an instant the hinted smile on the doctor’s face falls to a glower, “Must you be so obnoxious?” The familiarity in the voice makes Chase tense slightly. No. . . The Magician said before the only beings it knows on familiar levels are other entities taken by the head nightmare. Which means. . .

“You’re one of them all well, Schneep?” Chase’s voice falls to a whisper, regret and betrayal flowing through his thoughts. Did he get this job for the reason, to be sought out just to be a victim, studied like some lab rat before the real test comes? Was all of this just a façade to drag him into the mess?

The nightmares did only come after he took the job. . .”Is that the only reason you hired me?”

Schneep sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as fingers push down the silver-framed glasses, “Chase, it is not your fault, you vere just unfortunately chosen like zhe rest of us—” He gives a glance to the Magician, shifting his tone to something darker, “—and another has been chosen.”

“A second one?!” The Magician’s eyes widen a bit in shock, glancing to Chase a moment, “ _It_ is going after two at once? How the hell can it do that?”

The Doctor snorts, “Vhy do you think ve have been playing babysitter for zhe human? It is busy stalking zhe other one—as I recall _It_ is in some frozen vasteland dealing vith zhe other, apparently a very exciting one—” Schneep delivers a sympathetic and sad smile to Chase, “—not meant as an insult to you, Chase. Zhis other one apparently is already superhuman vith a few special abilities.”

“Great. . . So I'm just a secondary thing.” Even to a twisted entity that plans to make him suffer he is second best—at least he is second best in the creature’s view which is loads better than how Stacy views him. Not like being first pick of some cruel horror is the best prize to achieve but at least that would mean he was first in something.

“Ugh, look what you did Doctor, you made him sad,” The Magician steps away as it begins to fiddle with a few of the cuts along its arms; its hand glows with the ethereal teal, hovering over the wounds to mend them quickly, “You should be more sensitive.”

“I'll show you somezhing sensitive,” Schneep growls, stepping over to hold Chase gently by the shoulders, “Chase, look at me and ignore zhat mozherfucka—” He blocks out the glare and the entirety of the other entity, “—you are somezhing special. You vould not be chosen by _It_ if you did not have strength. Over zhese last few months you have been a greater help zhen any ozher mortal, and I can see vhy _It_ chose you to join us.”

Chase pushes the contact off his shoulders, glaring at the doctor, “I don't care! I don't want to be some fucking ‘chosen' by whatever the fuck this ‘It' thing is!” Hands ball into fists, every bit of effort going into not letting the tears flow, “I want to be me! I'm just Chase Brody, father of two and host of the Bro-Average podcast series!”

The snort from the Magician gets a glare and glance from the other two, noticing it has shifted silently to sitting upon one of the counter tops—still without the dress shirt to cover its chest, “Not like there's a choice, Brody. Do you think we all willingly submitted to becoming immortal creatures bound to another? Once you are picked out by _It_ there is no going back. It will hunt you forever until you succumb to its will, become one like it.”

In a blink, the Magician takes on the monstrous appearance, yet keeps itself at the same height as the human guise. Four hands rest either against the counter or on its own lap, “I faced that and so did your dear doctor friend. The other two should be coming around soon. . . But—” it shrugs, “—it is not often you find more than one of us in the same spot.”

“You must enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

“Says the one who will non-stop blabber in the ears of potential ones. I recall we lost one because your incessant rambling drove them insane and ended up driving their vehicle off a cliff. Dear Doctor, have you still not gotten a hold of your _gift_?” The tone is a clear jab at the doctor with that mocking smirk prominent upon its visage.

The Doctor hisses, a twitch to his left eye growing more frequent, “Zhat is none of your business! Keep to your own abilities and your job. . . you are the one who seeks out zhe next—”

All three jump when the lights suddenly shatter above them, the entire office growing silent as machines die. Even the light that had been peeking through the closed curtain has seemed to vanish, leaving them in a blanket of darkness except for the gentle glow of the Magician’s abdominal area—the orb lightly floating inside blue ribs.

“What is going on?” The human of the group questions, noticing both supernatural beings tense up, “What the hell happened to the lights?”

Schneep shakes his head, “If it was just the lights the machines would still be working.” He moves over to the nearby computer, shaking the mouse and messing with the power before freezing, “No. . . not now!” He turns to the Magician, getting the other to frown, “It is here.” The screen flickers to life before it bursts into static, the image distorting and splitting into multiple mirrors of it.

“Already?” The Magician creates a small orb of magic, a way to check something—the images shown are something that neither Chase nor Schneeplestein can see, like a scrying orb showing it information that it could not see otherwise. Its frown deepens, a teal flame consuming the orb before it closes its hand, “There is still a week left. . . has it grown impatient?”

A large crash from another room drags Chase out of the fear of the loss of lights to a new horrific terror, “Grayson! Trey!” He does not stop even as the two entities try to hold him back, two voices calling out to try to stop him from going outside. He rushes through the door, skidding against the wooden floor as he turns sharply. His kids are in trouble, and he needs to be there now!

“It has appeared early. . . zhat’s not good. . .” Schneep glances over to the Magician, for once the two not snapping at each other. The other shakes its head before moving out of the room, quickly followed by the doctor.

The father runs into the lobby, eyes widening at the condition of the room. Chairs are strewn across the room, tossed into a disarray with no clear sign of where it started. Wallpaper that once converted pale walls peels in places strewn about as if neglected for years and upon the back wall are large gashes as if large claws were raked across the surface deep enough to pierce the plaster. Air filling the room smells musty with hints of burning wires. Whatever caused this damage so quickly is nowhere in sight.

Another unknown element is where both young Brody children are.

“Trey?! Grayson?!” Chase calls out as he moves from one side to the other, scanning the area and beneath chairs in hopes he could find the boys. Thrown chairs are avoided, skin crawling as small black and white spiders skitter from one hole to another, as if they are afraid to be exposed.

Nothing comes up in the first scan, and the same results when he returns to the other side, “Where are you?!” A chill runs down his spine, getting him to whip around to find only the empty air. Everything feels wrong, the temperature dropping significantly and time feeling as if it has ceased existing.

“ _Don’t waste your time, puppet_. . .” The echoed voice bounces against the walls as if the room is completely empty, no clear source to the words, “ _You will not find the little pests here_. . . _No, just the two of us. None of the others to get in the way._ ” Where is it?!

Chase gives anther scan of the room from his spot, hoping for some hint of either his kids or this one taking.

“ _Chase Brody. . ._ ” Steps echo against the floor, louder than it should be against carpeted ground. Finally, there is a source, a pinpointed location of where this voice is originating from—a figure approaching from what he thought was a wall but warps and twists as the one approaches, moving out of its way, “ _Dear little mortal father trying so hard to fight of your dying family. . . For what_?” A hand presses against the wall, a quick swipe to leave deep gashes in the surface.

The figure smiles, an unsettling sight as the dagger-like teeth are exposed from behind the lips, “ _Such a soul like you could be so much more than a broken father trying to have ends meet. You had a month, but time was spent so quickly you lost track. All of them lost track._ ” A month could not have passed already! Stacy said she would call him when she was getting on the plane and then when she was heading to his home.

It gets closer, a startling appearance that reflects something so much like his own visage—except for the aura of terror, of something so unnatural it feels as if they world bends and cowers in its mere presence. It stands perhaps a few centimeters taller than him, a similar length of hair but this one lets it fall to the right—long brown locks spiked up slightly as bits fall upon the forehead, _“You did not let go. . ._ ”

Despite how desperately he wants to speak, no words slip from Chase’s mouth—only a simple whimper coming out. This thing appearing as human strikes more dread into his core than the other times he would see it. This is the powerful one, the one who makes those other entities cower and kneel. This is the living nightmare.

“ _Did you spend it well, Chase Brody?_ ” It gets closer, the glimmer of its eyes growing into a blazing glow—blue contrasting with the acid green like a mirror of man and monster, “ _Did you say your goodbyes, or shall it be one where you simply vanish from this world_?” It chuckles low, stopping just a few steps away from the human.

Its head tilts slightly, two-toned eyes scanning over the other’s body, taking in every detail as they are finally meeting face-to-face, “ _It does not matter, now does it? When the time comes, it comes and there is no stopping it. . . but, with this last moment left, let us have some **fun**_.”

The words resonate painfully into the air, a terror rushing up his spine. Fun. That word does not hold the same meaning when spoken by another; it holds no joy or happiness within it. The single word only holds despair and a promise of suffering.

Its grin widens, the limited color in the humanoid guise starting to drain. Flesh begins to melt to reveal the monster beneath, blood oozing over bones as the new form manifests; the form Chase is all too familiar with—with more details than he has seen before—is revealed before his very eyes.

Twisted and huge, the creature emerges from the flesh of mortal guise, hundreds of eyes switching the direction they gaze. Spines break through skin and muscle, tracing along the curvature of the lower parts of each limb and claws accent the sharp edges.

Then, all eyes settle upon Chase, two mouths grinning wide with pearly white teeth exposed to contrast the abyssal black skin.

Not even a moment is allowed for the creature’s appearance to be taken in before deadly claws tear into flesh—severing muscle from bone with a low strike to the legs.

Finally, a sound can escape the father’s lips, screaming out in pain as his legs become completely useless. His face slams painfully against the decaying ground, his cheek being torn open by a stray, jagged nail. A hand reaches out, grabbing a handful of carpet and pulls himself forward—a vain attempt to escape the monster.

The chuckle above gets him to let out a whimper, all hopes dashed as weight presses against his back—intense weight that makes his spine cry out from the pressure, “ _Going somewhere, Chase_?” It chuckles, sharp talons at the end of its feet digging into the spine, breaking through flesh, “ _You were so wasteful with your time. . . dwelling on that pathetic **bitch** with no chance of having what you had. . ._”

It leans down, a hand forcing Chase’s head back so he may stare into every eye on its face, “ _So that means. . . shall I take you. . . or your little offspring_?”

Horror rises in his throat, “No! L-leave them out of this!” He struggles with both the hand holding a clump of his hair and the foot upon his back, “Don’t get them involved!”

“ _That’s up to you, puppet. . ._ ” It purrs, pressing close to let the deep green tongue extending between the teeth situated on its neck trail across the human’s face. Another deep, rumbling purr escapes it at the taste, “ _Do you sacrifice yourself or sacrifice them to your own life_?” It licks its lips, one after the other as eyes blaze with anticipation. No matter the result, it will have something new to play with.

Either he himself or his kids. . . Chase frowns, the odd tingling rising from the saliva distracting his mind—the afflicted skin starting to feel numb. There are the instincts of survival that he needs to continue living, yet there are also the paternal instincts that he needs to protect his children. The conflict of instincts rakes his mind, tearing him apart. Alas, one is stronger than the other, knowing that one is not worth two.

He exhales the breath he had been holding, eyes drooping in defeat. Words spoken are whispered softly, “Fine. . .” Dulling blue eyes meet with the acid green ones, cringing at the pure excitement that glimmer in those cruel eyes, “Take me. . . just leave them alone. . .”

Upon the confirmation, it lets out a horrific fit out laughter, echoed voices rising sharply in pitch and volume. Its voice is pure horror, sickly venom staining every syllable and infecting every ear that hears them. Once the laughter settles down into a bubbling giggle then dying away, “ _Just what I wanted to hear. . ._ ” The hellish monster gets up, relieving the pressure off the fragile spine before forcing him to turn around onto his back.

“ _Now. . ._ ” It muses, showing off the pitch-black claws in front of the human’s face, “ _I must say this process will be painful, but what is a new existence without pain. . . you should be grateful that I am giving you a new existence, a new place in this pathetic world. You will become a beautiful nightmare but first. . . we must destroy the mortality_.” It gives one last laugh before shifting, tearing its claws into the flesh of the father's legs—tearing through muscles and shattering bone to sever the limbs from torso.

Cries of agony and pain echo through the room, falling on ears deaf to his pleas for the pain to stop. It merely continues the torture, the preparation of the mortal flesh to become something greater.

* * *

Days later Grayson and Trey Brody were found in the midst of a burned building, a small office that was a doctor’s office. . . yet nobody could recall the name of the doctor and neither kid could remember exactly what happened. No matter how hard they tried they could not recall what happened. One moment they remember playing games with their father before heading to the doctor's office for a reason they could not remember and then awakening to the firefighters rescuing them.

When asked about what happened to their father, the questions would be met with confusion and a deep sorrow. They have no idea what happened to their father. 

Eventually when both boys were deemed healthy enough, they went home with their mother and moved to a new state. None of them could stay in that place with with lingering thoughts of the lost member of their family.

“Welcome home!” Stacy smiles as she opens the door to their new three-bedroom home. Even if she plays up having little feelings, the empty hole created by the absence of Chase in not only the children but also herself, it starts to eat away at her. When things seemed to get better, he is gone.

Trey frowns slightly, peeking his head in the doorway to look around, “Mama. . . I don’t like this place.” Something is off, something that make the young boy uneasy, “Do we have to live here?”

“It’s fine, Trey,” She reassures, taking his hand and guiding the young boy into the home, “It’s just the new home feeling, you’ll settle in quickly.” Grayson follows behind, glancing up towards the ceiling moments before a sound catches their focus. . . like the sound of something being dragged across the ground. It sounds like a body being pulled from one side of the attic to the other.

“What was that?” Grayson whispers, looking over to his mother. She shakes her head, letting go of Trey’s hand and gesturing for them to stay there as she heads to the second floor. Up on the second floor is the hatch leading to the attic, the cord sways slightly as if it had just been used. Nobody else is int the house but them. . .

A shaky hand reaches out, grasping the small ball at the end and she gives it a gentle yank. Carefully she guides the ladder down and ascends into the blackness above. As she gets further into the attic the dragging noise gets louder before it stops completely.

She pulls out her phone, quickly swiping it to unlock and tapping on the flashlight app. Instantly a cone of light emits from the device, far enough for her to see a few feet in front of her. Slowly, she scans the area, looking for anything that could have caused the sound.

When her flashlight falls against something oddly wet, it trails towards the back of the attic—a deep color that starts to drip through the floorboards. The trail is traced as she crawls up the last few steps and stands in the musty space.

Far into the back something lingers on the ground, its back to her as a new sound starts. . . the creaking of wood and a shadowy figure swinging back and forth in the air. When the light hits the figure, she quickly covers her mouth to stop the scream.

Hanging from a thick rope is the realtor who had sold her the house, his neck cut clean open as blood gushes out—he is hung upside-down like a carcass left to bleed out, the source of the crimson trail. But what lingers below gets her heart to completely stop.

A ghostly figure rises, no clear sign of legs behind the wispy body that flows like shreds of cloth in the wind. No, it is not the fact of what it is, but _who_ it looks like.

As it turns around, tears threaten to seep from her eyes.

“Chase. . .?”


	10. The Patient in the Basement

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, doctor.” The voice along with the footsteps are the only sounds to break the stagnant silence. Every hallway is given only enough light for them to see, the lights inside the rooms turned off as beds are occupied with sleeping forms beneath thin sheets, “They said you were good with special cases such as this.” He always had a reputation, even if he had just started working on the profession. A star born amongst emptiness many told him. He was a prodigy in medicine, a miracle worker for cases many others could not handle.

The two continue down the hallway, taking a left before the one calls for the elevator. Every floor of the building holds patients awaiting the day they could be brought back into society, to have a better life. The main floor holds the less extreme patients, ones who are close to being able to leave. These people are allowed visitors. The second floor is for the patients who are physically ill, and the third floor is for those who need more work.

However, the basement is for the most challenging ones, the isolation ward. This is their destination, confirmed when they enter the elevator and the resident doctor presses the button ‘B1'.

The elevator groans to life, beginning its decent down.

“Vhat is wrong vith zhis one zhat I vas called in all zhe vay from Germany?” The visiting doctor questions, taking the time of the ride down to get information, “I thought Dr. Iplier from America vould be able to take care of zhis one.”

The other shakes his head, “We tried to contact him, but it was said he was busy with other matters—and suggested we called you.”

At least they knew to call somebody who knows what they are doing. No matter how good of friends they were, often he doubted the abilities of Dr. Iplier—he falls into despair far too easily when a case becomes too difficult. Well, everyone has their flaws.

“And, vhat makes zhis one qualify to be down here?” From what the head doctor spoke of the basement contains very few patients. There are a few, mostly ones that are dangerous to be around others, but even so there are very few that constitute the isolation. The information he had been given mentions that most of the other basement patients were either dead or had enough progress to go to one of the other floors. This patient has not been moved back up after the events that put him there.

“As far as we know, he suffers from amnesia; he has no recollection of his past, only recalling his name and claims he is not what he seems to be, but he is just a sick man that needs help. However. . .” The doctor glances to the door as it opens, gesturing for the other to go first, “We’re concerned since he speaks to something and one time the cameras picked up a figure in his room. When we asked him who was in his room or who he was talking to, he said there was nothing and he was just talking to himself.”

An odd case, but not something he has not heard of, “Perhaps delusional, or your cameras are bugged.”

The other shakes his head again, “Not possible. We had the techs check over the system and it's in top shape.” Odd. . .

Their steps are short before they reach the security room, just a few paces away from the elevator. Inside, a single security guard watches the screens, only a few working: the security room itself, outside the room, the hallways and inside the single room currently occupied. The occupied room camera is the one pulled up on the second screen, a shape discernible as it sits upon the bed—most likely with their legs crossed atop the mattress. There is no need for the other cameras to be on since this one is alone.

“Does he have sheets?” He questions upon seeing the scene.

“Nope,” it is the security guard that answers, “We had to take them away since he attempted to suffocate himself with them.” Is the patient suicidal? “Same reason we put him in a straitjacket and took away his pillow.”

“Has he gotten any sleep?”

The doctor takes up responding, a welcomed change since it is his job to know these things, “As far as we know, he doesn't sleep if somebody is watching. Every time we look, he's awake.” He sighs, focusing on the guard, “Can you open the security gate? I'll let the doctor have a session with the patient.”

Nodding, the guard presses a few keys on the keyboard before a buzz echoes into the air. The two leave the room, heading through the barred gate and down the empty corridor. Much like above there is only enough light illuminating the space for them to see but it is only just enough to see a few feet in front. Each step echoes louder as it bounces against the empty walls. Only a few doors line the walls, every ten feet or so a door would come into view, parallel to the one across from it. The air is cooler down here, an atmosphere that would be more akin to a prison than a mental hospital. 

Once they arrive at the proper door, the residential doctor stops and pulls out the key, “If you need to leave from the session early, simply look into the camera until you see the light go from green to blue—blue means I am on my way to unlock the door and let you out.”

Great, he will be locked in with this patient so bad he is hidden in the basement. With how isolated this location is, maybe half a kilometer away from the security room, or a little less, he would not be surprised if the patient is suffering from depression and delirium. Such a cruel treatment of a patient, especially since most likely they do not give him three meals a day.

The door opens, revealing the sparsely decorated room and the figure situated upon the bed. He looks to be in his early thirties, maybe just reaching thirty—still in the prime of his life. It hurts to see such a young man dealing with being isolated like this, even if there is a complication going on in his mind.

He sighs, stepping into the room. A slight flinch is forced from his muscles as the door closes behind him, the eyes of the patient slowly focusing in on him. Odd, the man has such brilliant teal eyes, glowing with such energy he has never seen before.

There is something special about this man.

Taking a seat in the chair—the only other piece of furniture in the room aside from the bed and a long broken and cleaned out mirror—he offers a smile, “Hallo. I am Dr. Schneeplestein, but you can call me Henrik.” Henrik pauses as the name seems to at least get a small response from the patient—just a minuscule nod of the head, “Vhat is your name?”

“They brought you here from Germany, didn't they?” Rather than responding, the patient moves to a different topic, “I can tell by your accent you are not from here.” He shifts uncomfortably in the straitjacket, grimacing—once again changing the topic, “Are you just like them?”

The doctor holds back his frown, hating how empty this one's voice sounds. Blue eyes glance towards the camera, despising its presence that blocks him from asking some controversial questions, “Depends on vhat you mean by ‘just like them’.” It is not quite known the differences between the mental hospitals he had done some internship at in Germany and the ones here in Ireland. No matter the place, even if mental health is not his specialty, there is always some mistreatment of patients—especially with difficult cases like the way this patient has been painted to be. It is such nature for humans to be afraid of what does not conform to their standards and isolate what will not conform. Is that his job here, to try to make this patient conform?

“Will you starve me, doctor? Will you stare at me like they do and count the days until you are rid of me?” The other’s voice somehow grows emptier, the volume dramatically decreasing to the point Henrik must move his chair closer, “I remember so little. . . This is not my home, not what I knew. I. . . I was a magician.”

A magician? This gets a short snort from him, “I doubt that. There is no such thing as magic, herr.” The glare is an odd change, a spark in the patient’s eyes that is unique.

“So you are just like them. . .” The six words are hollow yet filled with passion and anger.

“Nein, nein, I am not here to ridicule you or to continue zhis mistreatment,” Henrik corrects, quickly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Magicians are more of entertainers rather zhan vhat rumors call it.” That does not seem to make things better, “But, I vant to get to know you since I vill be your doctor for the next vhile.” He will make sure this patient deserves such isolation or not. Sometimes there are cases that cannot be worked with—yet to be the end result when he is involved—but that is to be decided after extensive steps are taken to try to help.

“So please, tell me your name, so we can get to know each other.”

The patient remains silent for a few beats, studying Henrik with a cold gaze. It can be easy to see this man has been through so much, the hardened gaze and the steeled stance despite the straight jacket constricting his torso and arms. What has he seen?

“My name doesn't matter anymore.” Is the simple response.

“Your name alvays matters!” The doctor gasps at this, “Did zhey tell you zhat?” The other doctor mentioned that the patient could remember his name, but did he ever tell them? Maybe he remembers his name but chooses not to speak of it, “No matter. If you feel more comfortable, maybe one day you vill tell me it.”

“You don't want that,” the questioning raise of an eyebrow from the doctor gets him to sigh, “Death follows me; I am a beacon of death. . . That is why I am down here. Those around me die off one by one.” He gives an attempted shrug, “Why? Who knows. It is not by my own hands they die, but by some other means.”

Every sentence brings more and more confusion for the doctor. What does he mean that people die but not by his own hands? Could it be. . .? “Is it because of zhat figure zhey found you talking to?”

The patient tilts his head, blinking, “What figure?”

“Zhey said you talk to somebody.” Was this another thing made up by these doctors as an excuse to keep this man hidden away? “Is there somebody?” It would not be surprising if there were things added into this patient's file to make him worse. Often, no matter how unethical it was, corrupt doctors would add to the ledger of a patient to ensure they never see the light of day. Such occurrences happen usually if there is something the patient has done to a doctor, or the staff believe there is no hope for the patient ever recovering so they ensure they will never leave. 

Teal eyes glance toward the camera, staring at it for a prolonged time. Partially through the gaze the light turns from green to red. Only then, does attention return to Henrik, the expression more serious, “Are you sure you want to know about _It_. . .? I delved into that realm of thought and. . .” His eyebrows furrow in frustration, “Something happened. I cannot remember. . . However. . .” Those burning eyes never change they focus, blazing into the very soul, “Do not trust the technology. _It_ can control technology, can see though it. Once you have Its attention, there is no going back."

Henrik gives a slow nod, internal notes made, “I see. I vill keep that in mind.” As the light on the camera returns to green, the door opens to the other doctor looking rather concerned. This is the end of their first session, “Vell, I vill see you tomorrow.” As he stands, Henrik bows his head and pulls the chair back into its spot. One last glance to the other and he leaves, waking alongside the other doctor. Neither see as the door closes the rather twisted smile gracing the patient's face.

“I zhink I vill take on zhis patient,” the first sentence he speaks brings a bit of shock to the other, “I am curious about vhat is happening vith him. I have yet to encounter a case like zhis.” His scientific curiosity is piqued and he is also curious about what this one speaks of with this ‘It'. So much to discover with this single person! It is his curiosity that is piqued more than his desire to cure, but perhaps it could also be his desire to cure. No matter, the end result will be the same and so will the path to that point.

He will be spending a while at this place, he can tell that.

* * *

“You haven't left yet. . . I'm surprised.” Words are not surprising from the patient’s mouth. Even the other doctor who had shown Henrik to this patient’s room had refused to return after the second day. The only one that has stayed is the security guard, but he seems to have very little going on in his head. Yet, no matter what, Henrik plans to stay. He cannot back down with such an interesting case tugging at his curiosity like a child wanting their mother to look at a toy they have wanted for months.

“I don't give up vithout a fight,” Henrik shrugs as he situates on the chair he has grown familiar with. Today is visit four, very little progress made. So far he still does not know the patient’s name nor what this thing he refers to as _It_ is. However, he has been able to get some hints about the other’s past.

The patient is originally from Ireland, but he says that the outside is much different than what he vaguely remembers—something does not click as familiar to him. As well, he continues on the idea he is a magician, and not the performer kind. That is just something that has to be worked on. Magic is yet another idea that is merely that; a thing that defies science such as magic does not exist in anything but fairy tales and myths. 

In the back of his mind, a sound rings so distant it does not register—a faint static.

“Besides, I am here to help you, and I vould be awful at my job if I simply gave up. But,” he adjusts the glasses on his face before taking up the pen, “I guess not everyone holds my standards.”

_Brave, aren't ya?_

“You may have a fight in the end,” the patient muses, shifting in his spot to sit up—expertly working to move with the jacket constricting his mobility. He has never seen this patient out of the straitjacket, always constricted and always in the same spot on the bed.

As far as it is known, they have not given him breakfast or lunch. How is he even surviving? Everything around this patient is confusing, yet makes Henrik all the more interested in figuring out what is wrong. 

“But, might I ask you a question, since you are a doctor and could help with this,” the patient’s words get an eyebrow to raise, “Could you remove this jacket? Ah, before you object to this hear me out. I have been unable to keep down the minimal food they have been feeding me and I've had constant pain in my abdomen. None of then believe me, but it has came to the point where I cannot move without agony.”

As if to make a point, he tries to stand up, letting out a gasp of pain before collapsing back onto the bed, “See?” The sound could not have been faked, it had the same rattled breath as a dying man.

“Mein gott! Don't do zhat if it hurts!” Henrik scolds as he moves over, gently guiding the other back to a sitting position. The moment the words had been uttered from the other's lips he was going to deny the request, but after that display he would be horrible to ignore it. Letting out a heavy sigh, he gives a slow nod, "Fine, I vill take it off enough to see what could be causing this pain." At least this is the line of work he is specialized in; he is a surgeon not a therapist or a psychologist. Being able to do his specialty of checking for anything wrong physically is a nice reprieve. 

It takes time for him to undo the straitjacket enough to roll it up to reveal the abdomen.

What he sees is something unbelievable—he has to blink a few times thinking he is hallucinating, but it still remains.

The abdomen of the patient is missing! Instead of flesh there is a hollow opening, an odd teal glow from where the hips start with a black band around it. The jacket is pulled up a bit further to reveal even more confusing details. His chest is there, but has turned to a black color and the ribs seem to float in the space between the chest and hips. Even touching what should be skin and flesh does not feel like it should—it feels as if he is touching fur but it's not fur and is mixed with something metallic.

“Vhat zhe hell?! You have no abdomen!” Henrik states, dumbfounded by the discovery, “How zhe hell do you not have an andomen?!” That would explain why he could not keep down the food with no stomach to digest it and probably the pain. But nothing explains why there is an empty space instead of flesh. How is he even alive?! How did the other doctors not notice this?!

“Vhat zhe hell is wrong with your body?”

“That's rather rude to say, doctor!” The man huffs, “I guess that would explain why I don't feel so great.” He suddenly yelps, able to slap at the doctor’s hand with the loose sleeve of the jacket, “Oi! Don't go stickin' ye hand in my non-abdomen!” It makes Henrik chuckle internally: his accent seems to get thicker when agitated.

“Ye don't see me pokin' an' proddin' ye!”

“Zhat’s because my abdomen is not an anomaly.” It is a quip shot at the other, getting a growl as the reward, “Zhis does complicate zhings. . .” He does no wait for permission, removing the straitjacket fully to see if there is any other changes.

Much to his surprise, there are other changes: the patient’s chest is a black color with a bit of a vibrant blue, but the oddest part is how his arms detach at the shoulders, elbows and wrists, “How are you even alive?!” His hands are pure white, the nails gone and all details of skin vanished save for what looks to be remnant scars on the right palm. 

“Magic.” He says it as if it is obvious.

“Magic does not exist!”

“And yet,” He gestures to his own body with a slightly smug grin, “I do not think your science or medicine could explain how I am alive and not bleeding to death.” He does have a point. . .

After a few moments of continuing to study the changes, Henrik replaces the jacket onto the other hastily, needing time to process this new information, “I vill adjust your medication to include painkillers.” He stands, giving a small frown, “And I vill not speak of zhis to others.” The look of relief on the patient gets the frown to vanish a bit.

He leaves the room, bracing himself against the wall. Why is this happening? The patient is correct that science nor medicine could explain these changes. A body cannot simply start morphing and twisting like that, let alone survive without organs—well, as far as he knows the patient does not have organs without putting him under and opening him up to search for such things. Alas, such a procedure is unethical without a serious health reason to do so. Schneeplestein is pretty sure scientific curiosity would not allow him to do such a procedure without getting his license revoked. That, and he is pretty sure if the other doctors found out about the condition of this patient he would be killed.

These will have to be thought of later, for now he needs to go request the painkillers for the patient.

* * *

Henrik sighs, shifting through files on a few other patients. The hospital has tried to assign him other patients, most quick to be in and out—what feels like a waste of his skills—but he rarely ever deals with them himself. The patient in the basement holds all his interest. Every day things are found out, new realizations to make him fabricate more questions and more ideas. Every solution he comes up with are quickly shot down with the reality of this man. Could it be even considered reality when it defies every bit of science he knows? No matter how far he pushes or how much he tries, there are no solutions to be given.

In a moment of frustration, he shoves the files off his desk, growling, “Vhy can't I figure zhis out?!” He hides his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, “Zhere has to be an answer. . .”

 _I can give you one_. . .

His head shoots up, quickly looking to see a source of the voice. Nobody but him.

_I am. . . Near._

He needs to rest. . . He will just chalk up this voice to being overworked and having little sleep. Yeah, that is the reason. . .

* * *

He is seeing something, but he cannot explain what it is he sees. It is always in the peripheral of his vision, vanishing the moment he tries to get it fully into his sights. The thing slips away, a shadow lingering just out of reach. It mocks him from a distance, never moving but standing there. It laughs or what he thinks could be a laugh. The sound is like a laugh laced with static, a buzzing that is so soft he misses it if he is not looking out for it. There is no consistency with when this thing shows up, when it will vanish or when it will make noises. Words can be discernible through the static, but even then it takes him time to recall what it says. Words are difficult to understand from it, laced with static and buzzes, horribly accented with something he cannot identity. It sounds vaguely Irish, but even that cannot properly mark it. 

Is he going insane? No, he tests himself daily with his mental capacity, makes sure he is in tip top shape. But. . . To think these things are reality should be the thoughts of a madman! There are the things a therapist would be concerned about hearing from a client. Such things sound like schizophrenia, but other aspects are missing for a diagnosis. No, no disease or syndrome can describe what he is going through. Even calling it insanity seems like a feeble excuse.

“Dr. Schneeplestein?” The voice of a nurse gets him to look up, realizing he has been standing in the elevator for who knows how long. When. . . When did he get into the elevator? The last thing he could remember was being in his office.

Henrik clears his throat, “Sorry, got lost in thought. Vhat do you need?”

* * *

“I’m not going insane. . .” He takes in a deep breath, running a hand through locks of brown hair before placing the glasses back upon his face. Every day he is in this place it feels like he is losing grip on reality. Before it had only followed him around the hospital, but now he is seeing it at home. It stalks him at home, finding the fridge door open in the middle of the night or hearing the tv flicker on to a channel of static. Even his wife is noticing the changes, starting to get concerned. Often she has asked him to stay home from the hospital or that they should return to Germany, but he refuses. It would be not only a strike on his ego but his job ethics to simply get up and leave a patient without getting progress. . . even if it seems to be costing his sanity.

_Were you ever sane, good doctor?_

One again that figure appears in his peripheral, yet this time he can make out a single detail: a green glow about the spot where an eye would be. Though, the moment he looks over, it is gone—moving to the other side. Always out of reach, always teasingly out of reach. Or, usually it is. This time it is dangerously close, covering his peripheral on the left in blackness of its shadowy form. His mind stimulates the feeling of breath brushing against his neck despite the lack of breathing from it. It is too close, way too close.

“You’re not real. . .” Hands grip at his head, fingers pressing through the longish hair, “You’re not real.” No, these are not his own hands. . . these are its hands pressing against the side of his face, sharp nails resting on skin.

_Oh, Henrik, when will you realize your niche is over with. It is almost time for a new role._

And then just as it had suddenly came, the figure is gone, taking with it the haunting voice and the touch against his skin. At the same time, as he comes back into reality, he finds himself standing at his front porch, oblivious to the calls of his wife until he comes to.

It is 3AM. How did he get out here, when did he get home?

* * *

He is starting to ignore calls. He has not turned on the tv or even used his computer in weeks. Everything is wrong, everything just reminds him on that thing.

Nowadays, he is starting to see eyes when he closes his and even when he opens them. Those acidic eyes watching him, always staring him down like he was a misbehaving child. Never alone.

Nobody at the hospital questions it, figuring that it is because Dr. Schneeplestein has been working with the odd patient and is getting overworked. They offer him time off, but he refuses. Time off means there is time for him to let his mind wander, to let that _thing_ seep into his thoughts. The more he thinks about it the more it snakes in. No, he needs to work, needs to learn more from the patient.

His phone rings, tired eyes glancing over to notice it is a call from his daughter. She must be worried, probably told about what was going on from her mother. She probably knows about the rift starting to form between him and her mother. They always talk to each other, she takes on so much after her mother. She just has his eyes and his brain but got the personality and looks of her mother. His daughter probably knows that her mother went back to Germany, that they are not filing for divorce but they feel there needs to be time away. Divorce is coming, he knows it and part of him is glad.

If they are not together, she will not have to deal with what is to come.

_Save her from such a painful end._

He cannot drag others into this. Her mother will be happier without being stuck in this maddening rut.

But now that she is not around, _it_ is his only company.

His hand moves and declines the call. He does not need to talk to her, she already knows what is going on—he does not need to make it worse.

Another call comes in, the same number. She does not want to give up, but he does not want to deal with it. The phone is smashed against the table with brutal force, the screen shattering.

Henrik must do this alone, even if it means his family will hate him in the end.

 _At least then, they will not mourn your mortal end_.

* * *

“Are you starting to see _It_?”

After a few months of sessions, Henrik has gotten more and more used to the oddity that is the patient. Luckily, he has gained enough merit and reputation in the hospital to be able to visit the patient in the basement even without the security guard watching. They trust him with the odd patient, but they always end up asking if he is okay. Word quickly spread about his wife going back to Germany and his appearance becomes a concern as well.

Though, as time goes on, he feels like he is losing grip on reality more and more. There is a constant static sound in the back of his skull, that figure hiding in his peripheral. . . And the times he would find himself in places he could not remember how he got there. This _thing_ is getting too nosy, too close. He will wake up in the mornings with that shadowy thing near him, those thousands of eyes staring him down all until the sleep is gone and so too are those eyes. It breathes down his neck—he can feel it now. This _It_ is getting closer.

“What is zhis _It_ you speak of?” Henrik questions. He knows the patient knows enough information to give him something. Over time, the other has started to remember more and more. With the more remembered, the odder he gets. At times, he stares directly at where Henrik sees the figure in his peripheral. The patient can see that thing.

It was quite the surprise when Henrik came into the room with the straitjacket on the ground and the patient mediating in the air. . . With four arms. He is starting to doubt this patient is even a man. Even if he does not believe in magic or the rumors of supernatural creatures, this one is starting to shake his stance. This one and that thing just out of reach.

“The thing you see but cannot, the static in your head. _It_ seems to have taken an interest in you.” It is not certain if such a thing is a good to have, “Has it spoken to you yet?”

“Spoken, stalked my in my peripheral, drove my vife avay,” the doctor sighs. His very appearance reflects this tiredness: his shirt a bit wrinkled, his coat having a few remnant stains of coffee and he has steadily growing bloodshot eyes. Even if he were not the friendliest person around, it could be told that he is more irritable and paranoid, “Vhat hasn’t it done to me?” Every aspect of his life is in shambles expect for his job. Somehow, through all the madness, he has kept his job going strong. This is the only thing he has left. His daughter and son have stopped trying to contact him and he has not gotten a letter or peep from their mother. Still, divorce has not been filed for.

The patient gives a slight grin, “It hasn’t appeared fully to you yet. . . it hasn’t fully chosen you yet.”

“Chosen?”

“You'll find out soon,” the cryptic response gets him to grimace. How can he not get a straightforward answer? This does not seem to be something that the patient has forgotten. In reality. . . It feels like this patient knows more than what he is letting on.

“I vant you to be frank vith me, herr,” Henrik laces fingers together and rests then both against his legs, “How much do you remember?”

A moment passes before the other gives a hint of a smirk, a glimmer shining in his eyes, “Perhaps I remember some things but, dear doctor. . .” The patient leans forward as well, all hands resting against the bed, “I expect a curious mind of yours wants to figure out such things yourself. Or would you rather me hold your hand?”

Annoyance washes over Henrik’s visage, standing abruptly from his chair. The audacity of this one! Toying with him by dangling information in front of him but not give him any hints or ideas to work off. He turns, heading towards the door, “I vill be back next session.”

“Sleep well, doctor.” The hummed words are the last thing he hears before the door is slammed shut.

* * *

A full week has passed since he had last spoken to the patient in the basement. Henrik continued to check up on the patients assigned to him on the upper floors but never once stepping into the basement. Every day he attempts to ignore that figure, not wanting anything that goes against his belief that supernatural entities do not exist, that everything can be explained by science. Perhaps denial is his only path now to retain the little sanity he clings to left in his deteriorating mind.

Whatever that thing is just out of sight is not pleased with this turn of events. It has started to leave notes for him on his electronics, scratched into surfaces and thoughts crawling in the back of his mind. This thing wants him to return to the basement. It is growing impatient.

But he refuses; Henrik continues to avoid that place, brushing off questions of why he does not return to the patient he had such interest in. A common excuse is that he needs a small break, an easier task that can build up his mood again after getting nowhere with the other one. Nobody questions it. After a couple of days they stop asking questions about it, going back to business as usual.

Today he heads back to his office late, checking for any messages before shoving his phone into the pocket of his lab coat. The night is still young, but he has files to organize and return to the archives.

The door swings open, his heart jumping into his throat when he finds somebody sitting in his chair. No. . . not just one in his chair but another with their back to him staring out the window.

The one in the chair is too familiar, but how is he here?

“Dr. Schneeplestein. . .” The man stretches his arms over his head, brushing a few strands of long brown hair from his eyes—those piercing teal eyes, “I thought you were not one to give up, yet, look at you hiding away from your task.”

In truth it is highly unnerving to see the patient out of the room and looking to be a normal human. He wears a bright blue dress shirt with a tight-fitting, dark vest and black dress pants. Part of the hair is tied up in a bun while the rest hangs over the right side of his head, “Here I thought we were making progress. . . Or were you afraid?” He tilts his head slightly, giving a faux frown, “I was hoping to have some good times before things changed.”

Henrik sneers at this, slamming the door closed behind him so no others could stumble upon this scene, “How did you get up here and vhy are you here?” He has no patience for games nor dancing around the truth.

“Why don't I give some answers. . . Doctor.” A third voice joins in, the figure at the window turning around. A green eye and a blue one rest in this man's skull, something about his presence unnerving to say the least. This one. . . He sounds exactly like. . . like that thing he could never see.

The unknown one grins, showing off unnaturally sharp teeth lining his mouth, “But first, where are our manners—” the patient snickers at the words, “—we haven't be properly introduced. . . I had to see if you were even worth the effort.” He gives a wider grin, pointing at Henrik, “Congrats, doc, you seem to be worth the time—” though, the dip in his voice and the accompanying sneer send a shiver down the doctor’s spin , “—for now.”

Just like it had not been there, the voice returns to normal, that grin returning, “I am Glitch, as mortals have came to call me, at least they do for the small remainder of their pitiful, mortal life. And you have became acquainted with Magician,” The one on the chair gives a grin that mimics the one on Glitch's visage.

“Zhose aren't names.” Despite the unease, the sass still rises from the German doctor, “Vhat are your names?”

Both exchange a glance with one another before Magician speaks, “Those are the only names you need to know. As I said, old names mean nothing anymore—my mortal name is meaningless, long forgotten.”

Within the blink of his eyes, the one called Glitch is right in front, as if appearing rather than waking over, “My true name is never uttered by mortal lips. . . You will never know it. Dear Magician knows it but that little memory is locked away.” He chuckles at the furrowing eyebrows and the frustration upon the doctor’s face.

“Poor doctor, so deceived into believing amnesia.” Glitch purrs, tracing a finger across Henrik's lower lip—which gets the doctor to take a step away.

Magician chuckles, standing up from the chair as teal eyes scan the picture upon the desk, “Not completely untrue. I do not recall my past, but what is the use dwelling in the past that will never return? I'm not some sad little mortal struggling to gain influence in an unforgiving world. Instead, I seized it, embraced a new existence.”

The ex-patient steps forward, each step meticulous and steady to close the distance, “I wonder if he is worthy enough. . . He shows potential.”

“It all depends,” Glitch chuckles, his head tilting slightly as he observes the doctor, “Such a corrupt core held behind a façade of kindness. Tell me, doctor, do you care for your patients or are they a means for your curiosity to be satisfied?”

He grimaces at this, “Vhy can't it be both?” Perplexing how his night has become a philosophical conversation with two entities. Though, he has a creeping feeling it will devolve into other things—not so pleasant things, “I satisfy my curiosity through the care of my patients.”

Magician chuckles, shaking his head, “Then why refuse those others help when you solely focused on me? Tsk tsk, such a horrible liar you are, doctor.” The entity begins to circle around Henrik, teal eyes burning holes into the doctor’s very soul—yet such an ice-cold gaze, "Not such a good doctor after all. Too focused on your own gain to care about the patients or to even care what damage it does to your family."

Henrik snarls at the last remark, "I distanced myself to save zhem from vhatever hell zhis is vith you two!"

“You try so hard to deceive, yet you could be better at it. . .” Glitch muses as he steps nearer, a beat of time before his hands shoots out and grabs Henrik’s chin. Sharp nails press against skin, threatening to break through to free the blood held beneath.

The entity snarls, showing off all those pearly white teeth lining his mouth, “Don't hide behind your pathetic excuses of morality and ethics. You have no such things, you just deny your nature. . . I can see it in you, Henrik von Schneeplestein. You crave to go beyond what these pathetic mortals could offer, but you are too restricted by your mortality. However. . .” He lets out a chuckle that leaves unsettling in the dust.

This thing is horrifying even if it looks just like a human. Glitch, as it is called, is far from human. Glitch speaks of such fortune, but the tiny voice in his head tells Henrik there will be pain and suffering if he even thinks of accepting. Though. . .

“Why not give up on this pathetic humanity?” Glitch purrs, the nails piecing skin and diving into flesh beneath, “You can become an immortal force, a beautiful creation in this pathetic world.” He can feel the other squirm against the grip, can smell the unease and fear radiating off flesh. Such a delicious smell, "You can become a god amongst mortals, deciding if they shall live happily or die painfully."

Even a moment of hesitation gives the monster a path in, an avenue to slip into the mind. The words spoken still gets it to grin, “No. I do not care for your offers like some devil in disguise. I vill make my vay in life in my own. I have a job to do,” he grabs hold of the hand, yanking it away—wincing at the pain blossoming from tearing the nails out from his skin, “Leave me alone, zhe both of you!”

A small exchanging of glances is done between the two before Glitch gives a subtly mocking bow, “Very well then, doctor, we will be seeing you soon. . .”

“Nien!” Henrik hisses, “Never again! I never vant to see you again! No more of zhis shit zhat defies science, no more of zhis bullshit! Leave and never return to my sights again!”

“ _Poor doctor. . . It does not matter_ ,” it brings a chill down his spine as both Glitch and Magician speak, “ _You will have no choice. You will accept the gift. . . willingly or not. You will lose enough that you will accept it one day_.”

Not a moment is given before both are gone, leaving not a single trace of their presence in the office.

There is no way he can get any work done now. Sighing with slack shoulders, Henrik gathers up the files and heads to the archives to return them. Might as well head home.

* * *

His head throbs, each throb bringing more pain than the last until it all goes numb. Every day since this two appeared had gotten worse. With no way of describing how the patient in the basement suddenly vanished, the others had lost some confidence in him. Every day became more and more frustrating until he could not take it anymore.

He needs to go back to Germany, sending a letter to the head of the hospital that he will be returning home.

Something feels wet against his fingers. It smells odd. He glances around, noticing it is the living room of his home. 

Back in Germany he can forget about this bizarre occurrence and move in with his life. Such things have consumed his mind, driven his insomnia further beyond what it was prior.

What is dripping? Why does he feel cold?

And then it started donning on him. He would lose everything before accepting that demon’s gift. Lose everything. . .

His wife cheated on him. Where is she? She should be home, probably in bed. He should talk to her. It is a slow getting up from the chair, feeling the world spin around him as static momentarily fills his ears. As the dizziness fades, so too does the static.

His steps carry him to the back of the house, hearing no sound from behind the doors. When did the hallway get so long? It feels like an eternity before he reaches the door, fingers taking hold of the knob.

It is a struggle to open the door, his hand slipping away from the smooth surface. Finally, with enough of a grip, the door swings open. The smell is worse, dense inside the bedroom. It originates from the bed. The curtains are drawn, blanketing the space in darkness. Only the dim glow of the digital clock—the numbers glitching between 88:88 and 10:31 before becoming a indiscernible mess. He slowly approaches the bed, not even flinching as his nose is bombarded by the putrid smell.

“Oh. . .” Henrik steps to her side of the bed, looking down, “That's right. . .” His hand brushes across the sheets, leaving trails of crimson, “You’re dead.” 

Right, she has been dead for a few days. Eyes glance over, noticing a text message lighting up the phone. A message from her daughter asking if she was okay. A few seconds later, a phone call comes in.

For the first time in months, _he_ picks up the phone.


End file.
